


Pretty Face, Electric Grace

by Rocinan



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon Relationships, Crossdressing, Finger Sucking, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Martín gets to do the Rejecting this time around, Not Canon Compliant, Older Man/Younger Man, Rated M for Martín's mouth and Andrés' kinks, and maybe one percent angst, mentions of Monica/Denver and Tokyo/Rio, this is ninety-nine percent crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:33:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24953833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rocinan/pseuds/Rocinan
Summary: “Palermo,” Berlin says, the word a tremor in his throat, “are you single?”And Martín hates the fact that it sends an impure tingle down his spine. He answers in a growl:“I’m nearly twenty fucking years older than you.”(Or, the AU where Andrés is Sergio's younger brother. And Palermo isn't exactly into young assholes.)
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Denver | Daniel Ramos, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Professor | Sergio Marquina, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote, Helsinki | Mirko Dragic & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Palermo | Martín Berrote & Professor | Sergio Marquina, Raquel Murillo/Professor | Sergio Marquina
Comments: 64
Kudos: 159





	1. Side A: Andrés

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write something with um, attempted meaning, but this came out instead, a very weird borderline crack piece- but I hope you enjoy it anyway :'D
> 
> And yep, it's an AU where Sergio is older than Andrés. For most of the story, Sergio's canon-age (late 30s/early 40s), Palermo's canon-age (40s), and Berlin is a solid 25. This won't be a long story (probably just 1 or 2 chapters more).

Martín meets Andrés by accident. But he meets Sergio first on a cloudy afternoon. It’s the first day of school, but Martín’s had plenty of those, too fucking much in his opinion. Back to the point- it’s the first day of school, the first day of working towards his doctorate because he already has a fancy Master’s and plenty of job offers. But a regular job with regular people isn’t something he wants, though he didn’t know it then.

It’s the first day of school and Martín doesn’t intend to talk to anyone who isn’t his mentor (unless it’s to insult them) or his peer (these bastards, he’ll insult either way). But when he saunters back into the empty classroom (because he likes coming to class early and leaving late) after a visit to the toilet, there’s someone at his desk filing through his notes.

He remembers saying something like, “hey, don’t touch my fucking things,” but in reality, he says a cold, “Can I help you?”

The figure looks up. Martín remembers the glasses first, some stubble on a chin, ruffled brown hair. The man doesn’t feel tall because there’s something humble about him, earthy and shy, but he actually is tall, and Martín somewhat resents him for it, not that he’d admit it.

“Oh!” the bastard says, like he’s surprised, “I’m sorry- I thought this was my class-”

And then he introduces himself with some name Martín doesn’t remember. But he does recall it being the name of another doctoral student and definitely _not_ Sergio Marquina. There’s this one guy, a student from Spain, and not-Sergio fits the profile. _Identity theft._

But back then, Martín isn’t any wiser so he believes not-Sergio, has a good laugh with him, and points him in the way of his room. Not-Sergio finds a way to strike an actual conversation, a bunch of phony words lathered with praise. By the time he’s done talking, Martín’s ego is so stroked that he agrees to meet not-Sergio again.

This goes on for a while, not because the other man is his type (though Martín could make it work if Sergio wanted to swing that way), not because they have particularly meaningful discussions, but because he’s fascinated by what not-Sergio says. Bit by bit, the conman lures him in until Martín is entranced with his promise of a flawless plan, of unrealized potential, and a life beyond a desk job and eating burnt bread for dinner.

By the time Martín realizes Sergio fucking Marquina is a fucking liar, he’s already helping him and some equally shady men (a tall guy they call Marsella, and a more talkative Bogotá-- Martín hadn’t wanted to be called anything but the team decides on Palermo anyway) rob a train. It does go perfectly, to Sergio’s credit, and nobody reports anything until the four of them are long gone, a shit ton of wallets and suitcases in tow.

Sergio says Martín, or rather, Palermo, is good at calculations, good at judging, good at collaborating. Martín suspects Sergio just thinks he’s good at doing dirty work, but he wraps his arm around Sergio anyway, kisses his cheek for fun, and says, “You son of a bitch.”

Martín quits school after that. He doesn’t need another degree, but the thrill of another plan, he can’t deny. When Sergio contacts him again, he answers without thinking. And again. And again. Three or four of these _collaborations_ later, he’s moved out of his shitty apartment and into a roomier, nicer place. Sergio promised him the top of the world, but Martín’s content just being above the bottom. 

But Martín is, at his core, a lonely, _lonely_ man. And he passes his time in the worst ways possible. He has some bad hookups and some bad breakups, and some admittedly bad ideas that he isn’t ashamed of. He learned a long time ago that the world doesn’t owe him shit and will in fact, keep trying to turn him into shit. Too bad for the world that the moment Martín Berrote grew up, he decided that he didn’t owe anyone shit. And if anyone thought worse of him for it, he wouldn’t mind fucking them up. 

Which probably explains why there’s a limit to how much he opens up, a fine line that pretty much nobody can cross. Until Sergio. Which is odd since he doesn’t truly consider Sergio a friend. Their minds don’t mesh, their morals clash, they don’t even like the same songs. But sometimes Sergio calls him up anyway, even when there’s no business to be done, either for a cup of coffee or an opinion on something in the news.

It’s Sergio who helps him secure a flat in Madrid (just in case), and it’s Sergio who offers to pick him up at the airport each time he leaves Buenos Aires. Martín would rather go to Sergio than let Sergio come to him because the son of a bitch has a creepy habit of being able to find his targets no matter what.

Back to the line- it’s not that Sergio ever crosses it, it’s that the line doesn’t seem to exist when Martín is around Sergio. For all his quirks, Sergio is a man who can keep a secret, who he knows he can trust. And when it comes to close acquaintances at the very least, that’s how Martín prefers it.

Sergio acts like he’s one-hundred-and-two, but the man isn’t even thirty, barely over twenty, maybe even several years younger than Martín himself. So when Sergio invites him to his house, a modest one-storey decorated like an Ikea model home, Martín’s rather surprised to see a framed picture on the wall.

It’s Sergio sans beard, and a boy- maybe ten or eleven- up to his chest, scrawny in an oversized jacket, a strangely cold smile on his lips. He has Sergio’s gravity in his eyes, the same sharpness to his features, but his hair’s darker, black. He looks like a little piece of shit.

“You have a son?” Martín blurts, “did you knock someone up in school?”

Sergio almost drops his coffee mug. He pinches his glasses. “No. I spent my school days studying-”

“Didn’t know you had it in you.” Martín whistles. “How was the pussy?”

“Martín-”

And he laughs. “Don’t answer that, Sergio. You know I don’t do pussy- just the thought of my dick in it- ugh-”

“Martín, my brother will be home soon. _Please_ behave yourself in front of him.”

“Only if you kiss me.”

The look on Sergio’s face is enough for Martín to laugh again. But he gives Sergio his word. Then Sergio, ever serious, moves on to discuss something else with Martín, something about the Royal Mint and if Martín was willing to take part. It’s riskier than the other things they’ve done so far, the “practice,” according to Sergio.

“Why are you asking me first?” Martín says.

“I trust you.” Sergio, for once, looks nervous. “I don’t think I can do this without you. But I’ll need your answer now- it’s going to take time to plan and I need your help every step of the way.”

Martín nods. He likes thrill, not necessarily danger. But there’s something personal going on here and it’s not like he has anything to lose. Still, he needs to consider.

“I’ll think about it,” he tells Sergio.

He’s honest. Martín steps out of the house for a drag. He doesn’t like smoking, but sometimes he does it when it doesn’t feel right to drink. And that’s when he meets Andrés, not through Sergio’s introduction, but by accident.

Someone- who obviously isn’t looking where he’s going- bumps into Martín’s shoulder. 

“Hey! Watch it,” he hisses.

And the boy turns, an odd indifference in his face that makes Martín pause. He’s a lot older than he was in the photo (and already taller than Martín by an inch or so), but Martín recognizes those eyes. It’s Sergio’s brother, probably no younger than seventeen, his skin not terribly pale but ashen nonetheless thanks to the navy of his shirt. 

But Martín also recognizes the yellow shiner under his eye, the split lip, and- 

“Shit, kid,” he says, putting a thumb to Andrés’ temple before he can stop himself, “is that blood?”

“It’s tomato juice,” the teen says with a shrug, unbothered by the stranger touching his face.

It bothers Martín though, so he pulls his own hand away. “Why’s there tomato juice in your hair?”

“Someone threw it at me.”

“Why the fuck they’d do that?”

There’s something very _off_ about Andrés, so Martín expects the answer anyway. But he’s unprepared for the way Andrés says it, the pure detachment that creeps from his mouth.

“Because I’m a freak.”

There’s no hurt in his tone, no resigned acceptance. A statement of a fact. It’s nothing like how Martín felt in high school, nothing like the shame, the resignation, the uncomfortable sensation that he deserved every bit of torment in his life-- Martín hears none of that in the boy, he doesn’t see it either (not in the hollow gaze, that blank eerie stare), but he feels it anyway. 

“Who told you that?” Martín asks, feeling more defensive by the minute.

Andrés shrugs again, oddly unmoved by that fucking question. “Everybody. I can’t feel things the way people do.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“Things that make normal people happy or sad, I don’t feel them. I just-” He raises a hand, struggling to find the word, and settles on saying, “I just don’t.”

Andrés’ problem is obviously nothing like young Martín’s, but Martín sees himself saying those exact same words anyway. Or something close to it when he still found himself disgusting and unwanted and-

“Are you going to tell your brother?” Martín demands.

“Nah. I don’t care.”

He sounds like he means it. Andrés shifts the backpack on his shoulder and walks on, but Martín grabs his sleeve. He expects shock from the teen, some kind of reaction. But Andrés only looks at him again, his battered face a perfect mask of tranquility. Suppression.

“Andrés, right? Listen, sometimes you have to pretend you care even if you don’t. Or it’s going to get worse.”

Martín would know best of all. In his head, he’s crossing the line at the speed of light, but it’s clear that there’s some line between everyone else and Sergio’s brother. And fuck it if Martín isn’t going to do anything. He already has a half a mind to storm into the house and tell Sergio, _they’re throwing tomatoes at your brother and calling him names so maybe you should fucking do something._ But what business does Martín have doing that? Either way, Martín’s a son of a bitch, but not enough of a son of a bitch to let this boy end up like himself.

“Okay,” Andrés tells him, an acknowledgement, not a promise.

But Martín releases him, and when Andrés walks to the door of Sergio’s house, he stops to say, “Stealing things. Stealing things makes me happy.”

If it’s meant to intimidate Martín, it doesn’t work. Martín snorts. “It makes me happy too, you don’t see me bragging about it.”

Then he says, “By the way, I’m Martín-”

“I know who you are.”

Andrés opens the door. Martín lights another cigarette and he thinks to himself, _little son of a bitch._

Three days later, Martín’s having drinks with Sergio at the kitchen table when a phone call stops whatever Sergio’s saying about the Mint. Andrés comes home earlier that day because he’s been expelled. For stabbing another student in the balls with a fork, on the grounds that “he laughed at me.” It’s the most fucking hilarious thing Martín’s ever heard, but Sergio is livid.

And whatever lecture Sergio has in store for Andrés, Martín doesn’t feel like listening in. He yawns and slips out while the brothers talk. Later, he’ll tell Sergio that what happened was “terrible,” but secretly, he thinks, _Good for Andrés._

* * *

Everything Martín learns about Andrés after the fork incident comes through in bits and pieces from little things Sergio lets slip up. Martín doesn’t really think about his brother again, and he admits that he actually forgets Andrés even exists from time to time. It’s not like Sergio ever includes the teen in their meetings, though they stop meeting at Sergio’s home once Andrés stops going to school.

The first thing Martín learns about Andrés (technically second, if he’s counting the things Andrés said to him when they first met) is that Sergio considers him the most important thing in the world. For some reason.

“He can be difficult,” is probably the meanest thing Sergio’s ever said about his little brother.

Sergio doesn’t praise Andrés in Martín’s presence, but his face lights up whenever he mentions his brother, who might as well be his son. Every time Andrés makes a new sketch or painting or what have you, Sergio emails it to Martín with no context. It takes Martín a while to figure out that Sergio is showing off his brother’s talents the way those giddy mothers show off photos of their baby. Speaking of babies, Sergio’s wallet has a pretty creepy picture of Andrés as a child (Martín would know since he stole the wallet from Sergio once, only to have Sergio steal it back), but Sergio probably thinks it’s the most adorable thing on Earth.

And pretty much anything Andrés wants, Sergio buys (or steals?). Whatever the case, if he can afford it, Sergio gets it. 

The other things aren’t as obvious, but Martín accidentally commits them to memory anyway. Andrés enjoys old Hollywood movies. He’s been to therapy a few times but Sergio was never content with what the therapists had to say. His favorite book is Arsène Lupin. He draws with two hands. He always forces Sergio to watch Eurovision with him from start to finish. Sergio’s teaching him Italian. He’s shit at biology. He does the cooking because he thinks Sergio’s a shit chef. He’ll ask Sergio for a new bike but he won’t ask for the Armani suit he really, really wants. He likes sneaking into theatres to watch the actors rehearse. He drinks cranberry juice from a glass so he can pretend it’s red wine.

And he was very unhappy before Sergio came along, so unhappy he didn’t even know how to _feel_ happy, sad, all those “normal” emotions Andrés once said he didn’t have. Martín doesn’t ask Sergio to elaborate- he’s sure it’s not something Sergio meant to bring up anyway. If nothing else, it explains why Andrés didn’t care about the boys beating him up at school. Or why Sergio goes out of his way to spoil him, like he’s trying to make up for whatever happened to Andrés before his father’s death.

Martín remembers giving Sergio a CD for Andrés’ eighteenth birthday. He doesn’t recall the song. He also remembers Andrés sticking gum in his hair and stealing his phone when he had to spend the night on Sergio’s couch. Sergio forced Andrés to apologize on his knees for that, but Martín looked his brother in the eye and called him “a little fucking bitch” anyway.

* * *

Andrés is nineteen when Martín officially meets him again. He’s studying abroad in Germany, or so Sergio says- Martín’s ninety percent sure the good _professor’s_ younger brother is spending all his time partying and snorting drugs instead. Maybe Sergio thinks so too or he wouldn’t ask Martín to drop in on Andrés. Technically, he asked Bogotá and Bogotá asked Martín.

Martín’s been in Berlin for maybe a week or so when he gets Bogotá’s call. 

“I’m on vacation, you know,” he tells that man, “you fucking owe me.”

That’s half a lie. He wasn’t on vacation. He was shacking up with some bastard named Ehren, a divorcee going through some kind of middle-aged gay crisis. The sex is mediocre and they barely talk. On paper, it sounds romantic: meeting a man on a flight from Madrid to Buenos Aires, going for a few drinks at his hotel, and then following him to Berlin for a week of nothing. 

Martín doesn’t believe in soulmates, but he does believe in compatible partners. It’s the bare minimum standard in a relationship. And Ehren isn’t meeting that minimum. The only thing Martín gets out of this is the chance to brush up on his German skills.

So checking in on Andrés is a good distraction from Martín’s fuckbuddy. 

He considers asking Sergio for Andrés’ number or email or something, so he can tell the youth he’s coming. But Martín would rather surprise him in the worst way possible. He doesn’t want to waste time actually investigating Andrés’ whereabouts, so he just hangs around the sites Bogotá highlighted for him.

And (no surprise), Martín finds him at a nightclub near the end of the evening. Andrés isn’t hard to spot, mostly because Martín recognizes the back of his head. It’s not so different from the back of Sergio’s head. He’s dancing with some girls, a drink in each hand. Technically, he’s not doing anything wrong yet but Martín has the urge to punch him for being so obnoxious.

Then Andrés spins around with a cheeky laugh. He looks nothing like the image Martín remembers. There’s still some of the boyish tenderness in his face, but everything else- Martín is staring at a different man. He can’t see the hollow black in his eyes, the ghostly indifference that he used to sport, no trace of the boy who called himself a freak.

Maybe Andrés was never like Martín. When he was in high school, Martín had no ego. And Andrés simply didn’t know that he _had_ an ego. Now he did.

And it’s Andrés who calls for Martín first. He dances his way over, confidence (arrogance) in each step, shoulders proud, head high. He’s grown since Martín last saw him, almost as tall as Sergio now but his frame isn’t quite filled, the awkwardness of youth not yet shed.

“Señor Berrote!” he says, “it’s really you?”

Martín takes one of the drinks from Andrés, tips it into his throat, and sticks the empty glass into someone else’s hand. He’s going to need a lot of drinks after this.

Andrés throws an arm around Martín. Then another. Until he’s hugging _Señor Berrote_ for a full ten seconds. Marin pushes him away, ignoring Andrés’ swishing laugh- his voice a good octave deeper than it once was- and pulls him back when Andrés almost trips. Completely drunk.

“Since when did you call me ‘Señor’ anything?” Martín says.

Andrés chuckles. “I was taught to respect my elders.”

“Elder?!”

Andrés claps Martín on the back. “I missed you! You came all the way here to see me?”

“I came to make sure you weren’t fucking yourself up. And look- you’re already fucking up.”

Martín begins dragging Andrés away. The youth doesn’t resist, a dumb crooked smile on his numbed face. 

“Where’s your coat?” Martín asks, “it’s snowing outside.”

“Oh, there, or I don’t know- isn’t the snow beautiful, Señor Berrote? Feathers from angel wings!”

Martín helps Andrés into a dark frock (which he assumes is Andrés’ coat). He doesn’t know if he came with a scarf, so Martín pulls off his own scarf- bright red- and wraps it around the younger man’s throat. Andrés stares at him the whole time, a dull glow in his eyes.

“My soulmate would follow me to the end of the world,” Andrés says, slightly slurred, “the purest devotion-”

His eyes pinch shut and he grins. Martín yanks him towards the doors.

“Only an idiot would follow _you_ to the end of the world.”

* * *

Andrés hums when they step outside, half leaning on Martín’s shoulder while they walk through the snowy streets. Steam furls from Martín’s breath, a bit of water dripping from his nose. He thumbs it away with a gloved hand. 

“Did you miss me?” Andrés asks, his tone suspiciously close to a purr.

Martín’s had enough experience with drunk flirting to know this is bullshit. 

“I don’t miss sons of bitches,” Martín grumbles.

“Ha, you’re as funny as I remember.”

Andrés drops the flirting for a while, settling for putting most of his weight on Martín’s body while they make their way to the metro. He mumbles over things during the walk, mostly about Sergio. Nothing of substance, but Martín gets the feeling Andrés thinks his brother can walk on water. Most kids can’t stand their siblings-- Andrés worships the ground Sergio walks on (but Martín supposes he’s always known that).

“So you really love yourself now, don’t you?” Martín grumbles, rather sourly.

Andrés presses his head into Martín’s neck. “Yeah.” A smile, half a smirk. “I’m handsome, talented, and cultured- I really like myself-”

Martín’s about to call him a delusional fucker when Andrés continues his drunken rambling. “Which is a study in irony because the world never liked me, but I like the world so-” 

His fingers drape over the buttons of Martín’s coat. “So here I am.”

Martín drags him down the stairs of the station. And then quite suddenly finds Andrés’ arms wrapped around his neck. His face is close to Martín, too close for comfort. And he smells it- the remnants of alcohol and frozen cologne, the same type Sergio uses.

“Do you like me?” Andrés mumbles.

Martín shrugs him off. Andrés stumbles until he finds a wall to steady himself. His knees shake. 

“The fuck are you doing!?” Martín snaps, “get a hold of yourself.”

“Okay.” Andrés walks towards him, swaying. “Okay- but answer this-”

But he still has that stupid grin on his face when he asks, “How do I look?”

Bow lips. A chiseled nose. Deep-set eyes, all the grace of a dancer in one head. _Beautiful,_ Martín almost says.

“Like a piece of shit,” Martín hisses. 

And he should pull away when Andrés touches his face, but he doesn’t. He lets the youth smile at him in that hazy way, lets him track his fingers down the jaw of his face, and then he lets Andrés touch his lips to Martín’s own. His mouth brushes against Andrés’ and then-

Martín shoves him away. 

Only nineteen. The brother of the closest thing Martín has to a friend.

“Don’t you want me?” Andrés says, an inkling of disappointment on his tongue.

The truth is, Martín wants him more than he’s ever wanted anything before. But not now. Maybe not ever. He remembers giving his first kiss to a man decades older than himself, losing everything to strangers he might as well have never known. Martín is a fucker, but not enough of a fucker to let Andrés do whatever this is.

He grabs the crook of Andrés’ arm and drags him onwards. On the train, Andrés falls asleep against Martín’s shoulder. But he doesn’t speak again, doesn’t even look Martín in the eye.

Martín drops Andrés on the stairs of his apartment. Then he leaves. Martín doesn’t tell Sergio about the kiss. But he does break up with Ehren the next day.

* * *

Andrés doesn’t take rejection well. Martín learns this soon enough. But the youth doesn’t come to his door throwing a tantrum. He sends passive aggressive postcards to Martín’s home in Argentina instead. He signs them all “Berlin,” and addresses them to a “Señor Berrote.”

It’s so annoying that Martín considers burning the cards. But there’s something funny about them and he’s always liked hilarious things. For starters, the cards are custom-made. Andrés doesn’t just send Martín the sights of Germany. He sends him photographs of _himself_ standing in front of each landmark, as if to say, “look at me! I’m so sexy! Fuck you for missing out!”

Martín only wonders who he got to take those pictures. 

Andrés has the same pose and expression in nine out of ten cards. Standing straight with a slight lift of jaw, lips either puckered or stretched to a grin. He looks so dumb. Martín actually enjoys staring at them, but he forwards each card to Sergio’s address anyway.

He imagines the look on Andrés’ face when he comes home and finds all those shitty cards on Sergio’s fridge. And Martín laughs.

But there is one card Martín keeps. It’s a Christmas card. Of Andrés standing in front of some snow-covered statue with an umbrella in his hand. There’s no stupid expression on his face, just a normal cheerful smile, petals of snow drifting above him like winter dust. He’s wearing the frock and Martín’s scarf, looking so classically _pretty_ that this photo might as well have been taken in the 1920s. But Martín doesn’t keep the card because he thinks Andrés is pretty.

He keeps it because he likes the way the photo is framed- like a portrait. It makes him smile.

* * *

Martín next meets Andrés at a dusty old house in Toledo. He’s twenty-five and his shoulders have finally filled out. The face is still young, but undoubtedly sharper, and when he glances at Martín with half-hooded eyes and the start of a crooked smirk, Martín can’t help but think of the word, _Man._

He puts Andrés in the back of his mind, ignores the dark suit that clings to his waist and the cocky tilt of his head. Martín thinks of the Mint instead, listens to the Professor’s plans, and reminds himself not to call Sergio anything else in front of the “class.”

Five fucking months with these strangers and the piece of shit that he knows as Andrés de Fonollosa, _Berlin_. Martín’s not sure if he can get by. He only hopes they’ll follow the no-relationships rule. Who’s he kidding? He knows that rule will be followed for one day maximum (if the Professor’s lucky). Hell, Martín’s already making plans to get fucked by that huge Serbian, already imagining the size of his cock.

When the Professor lets the class disperse, Martín’s quick to slip out. But not quick enough to escape Berlin’s whisper in his ear. He’s bent over just enough to place his head by Martín’s neck, close enough to kiss but not enough to bite.

“Palermo,” Berlin says, the word a tremor in his throat, “are you single?”

And Martín hates the fact that it sends an impure tingle down his spine. He answers in a growl:

“I’m nearly twenty fucking years older than you.”

He almost hears the grin in what follows, no doubt accompanied by an almost-wink.

“That’s what makes us so special,” Berlin tells him in a sultry dip, _“Papá."_

Fuck.


	2. Side B: Berlin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for showing interest in this borderline crack piece *surprise.jpeg* ! The saga continues here. It's Berlermo endgame but there's some casual Palermo/Helsinki and Denver/Berlin in here too. Also yes, there is a new trope tag added to the story ;)
> 
> Some smut this time around and Andrés being Andrés, a slightly better behaved version of him, but still-

“That’s what makes us so special,” Berlin tells him in a sultry dip, _“Papá.”_

That’s it. The stares, he can ignore. The shiteating grin, he can accept. But this- this is the type of thing that’s going to get Martín killed. Literally. And he has no desire to die by fucking Sergio’s hand. 

So Martín, or rather Palermo, twists around, a fistful of necktie in his hand, and pulls Andrés- Berlin- down to his level. 

“Fuck off, you son of a bitch,” Martín hisses, “or I’ll fucking castrate you.”

Martín fucking means it, but his threat does nothing to wipe the smirk off Berlin’s face. If anything, the younger man’s smile grows, until Martín can see a glimpse of teeth-- the kind of asshole grin from someone completely taken by his own charm. Martín finds him as charming as a pile of shit.

“How will you do that?” Berlin asks, not unlike a cat pawing at its favorite mouse, “with your bare hands, Palermo?”

Martín knows his palm is sweating, feels it soak the tie in his grip. He doesn’t look down, but he already knows there’s a boner behind the fabric of Berlin’s pants. There’s no way he doesn’t have a boner. Because Martín feels himself more heated by the second, and it’d just be wrong- fucking wrong- if this bullshit doesn’t affect Andrés.

“You can feel it now, if you want, _sir.”_ Berlin takes a step forward, that bulge in his pants a milimeter away from Martín’s thigh. “See if it’s easy to pry off-”

His breath catches when Martín squeezes the tie, tight enough to choke. 

“I’ll shoot it off with a fucking machine gun,” Martín says.

Abruptly, he releases the tie. Berlin stumbles, and Martín walks away with a loud, “Go fuck yourself.”

The younger man follows, a hand at his collar. “Wait, Palermo-”

“If you want me to choke you harder, no fucking way!”

 _“But Papá-”_ It’s almost a whine then, a perfect gasp of mockery.

Martín can’t leave him fast enough. He bolts straight into the big Serbian’s room and pretty much says, “Helsinki- you want some? You and me, here! Now!”

Because his dick is hard as rocks and fuck if he’s going to let anyone else know why. On the plus side, Helsinki is every bit as amazing as Martín expected, and his cock is bigger than Berlin’s could ever hope to be. The only downside is the fact that Oslo stays in the room the entire time, completely unfazed by his cousin fucking another man across.

* * *

Martín likes Oslo because he never talks. He likes Moscow because he’s honest, all things considered. He _respects_ Nairobi because she’s got balls, for lack of better word. And well, Martín thinks Helsink’s a real fucking catch. Everyone else can go fuck themselves in his opinion, especially Berlin.

Five months is a long time. It’s practically five years.

Martín remembers calling Tokyo a bitch, mostly because she called _him_ a bitch first. So he also called Rio a bitch. He blames their nightly fuck sessions for the reason he can’t sleep at night. Sure, he and Helsinki have a thing on the side but at least they make sure to end it before two in the morning, not at fucking six am. Martín considers ratting them out to Sergio, but he’s not a snitch (yet). 

Denver hasn’t done anything to annoy Martín yet, but Martín still thinks he’s an idiot with the loudest, most obnoxious laugh he’s ever heard. And Denver laughs a lot. Martín’s only thankful Moscow doesn’t laugh like his son. Or five months really would be five years.

But it does amuse Martín when Denver attaches himself to Berlin of all people. He doesn’t really notice at first (in his quest to give Andrés zero attention whatsoever), and for all he knows, Moscow also doesn’t pay it any mind until whatever’s going on between them crosses the line from companionship to something decidedly not heterosexual.

Martín’s favorite part is the fact that Berlin hates it.

Back to the main point- Martín notices one day during breakfast, a few hours after his and Helsinki’s latest session. The table’s elegantly set as usual, plattered to the brim with cheese and rolls and slices of honeydew on ham. Martín’s taken the meals for granted at this point, content with assuming Sergio managed to provide with telekinetic powers or whatnot. The Professor’s outside with Rio, talking over one thing or another, so the rest of them gather around the table first.

“So, did the boys sleep well?” Nairobi says, “we had a girl’s night yesterday.”

“The professor was there too.” Tokyo exchanges a look with her, and they burst into cackles.

“We did, actually,” Martín tells them after a sip of black coffee, sugarless. “Isn’t that right?”

He sends Helsinki a knowing glance and the Serbian only grins, an admittedly intimidating smile until one realizes it was exactly that- a sweet smile on a sweet, sweet man. 

Nairobi’s brows hike up. “Really, Helsinki? With him?” She laughs, as if she doesn’t think Martín’s good at fucking.

“Listen-”

Before Martín finishes, Berlin’s glass slips from his hand. Orange juice spills across the table and onto Helsinki’s lap. 

“You little shit!” Martín barks, leaping to his feet. “You did that on purpose-”

“Why would I do that!?” Berlin snarls back, “should I care what you do at night- I don’t have anything better to do!?”

Martín’s about to reach for him, fully intent on strangling him this time, when Helsinki stands up, an arm motioning for Palermo to stop.

“Not on purpose,” Helsinki tells him.

Then smiling, he pats Berlin on the arm and says, “Berlin. It’s okay. I go clean.”

He takes a napkin from the younger man and goes into the kitchen, leaving Andrés sitting there with pursed lips. Martín recognizes that look. On someone else, it’d be guilt. On Berlin, it’s probably shame.

And that’s when Denver pops in with a yawn. He throws an arm around Berlin’s neck, the latter visibly flinching, before he greets everyone else. 

“Shit,” he says, “it’s always a buffet in the morning, like a fancy hotel.”

He laughs. _That fucking laugh._

“You did this, right?” he asks Berlin, “man, I don’t know how you do it every day. I can’t even cut fruit without it looking like shit.”

“I have a standard of living,” is the dry response, “not that you would know anything about it.”

He looks at Denver with that “I’m so much better than you” stare, which would be intimidating if he was at least a decade older than the other man. But Denver, as always, takes it in stride and chuckles again, like Berlin is the funniest person in the world.

“Cool, cool.”

Denver sits, squeezing into Helsinki’s chair instead of the one next to his father. Then he says it, the dumbest most awkward thing Martín’s heard all month:

“You know what, Berlin- you’d make a real good wife.”

Martín is the first to laugh. He laughs so hard he can’t see through tears. He hears a mortified, “What?” from Andrés. And Moscow chokes on some oatmeal. But the one who really gets angry is Nairobi.

“Denver, what the fuck?” she says, “you really think that’s all a wife does?”

“Eh? I’m just saying he’s good at cooking and you know, setting the table- I thought the wife does that.”

“Holy shit,” Tokyo adds.

“It’s bullshit that anyone thinks ‘the wife’ has to do that.” Nairobi’s set her fork down, ready to tear into Denver then and there. “Why can’t the fucking husband? Why can’t the man? I think Berlin’s real manly for doing this- maybe you should say he’d make a great husband.”

“But-”

“And was that supposed to be an insult? Do you think me and Tokyo should be making your fucking food every day?”

Denver looks flabbergasted, confused, guilty, a whole range of emotions on his gaping face. Nairobi jabs a finger in Berlin’s direction.

“Berlin does this for you all the time and this is how you repay him? With your dumbass bullshit? Apologize!”

Denver tries to defend himself, but it’s clear to Martín that he can no longer find the words, Nairobi having pulled all the air from inside him. He claps Berlin on the back instead and says a sheepish but sincere, “Sorry, man.”

Berlin slaps his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”

“I think you’d make a really good husband too. Like, if I was into men, I’d be so into you.”

Nairobi returns to her meal, satisfied. Martín feels like he should add something, but he really doesn’t know what. So he just settles on finishing his coffee, waiting for Helsinki to come back and reclaim his seat, and listening to the rest of Denver’s idiotic statements, of which there are many.

“You’re not into men, so it’s a moot point,” Berlin says, “and even if you were, what makes you think you would be my type? I like educated, resourceful individuals.”

He casts Martín a quick look. Martín looks away, no desire to get embroiled into whatever this is.

“You could teach me.” Denver grins again. “Then I’d be your type.”

Helsinki returns at that moment, and Denver’s forced to leave Berlin’s side. But the look on Moscow’s face is enough to tell Martín he’s wondering the same thing-- Denver’s _not_ straight?

Maybe it’s because the only other person in Denver’s age range spends most of his time following Tokyo like a lovesick puppy. Or maybe it’s because Denver’s never met anyone as posh as Berlin before. Martín remembers Sergio going through the heist candidates with him; Moscow’s thug of a son hadn’t been part of it. Now he was, and from the moment Martín learned he was the same age as Andrés, he expected Denver to hate Berlin from day one. Not that Berlin made it hard for others to hate him.

Maybe that’s why it surprises Martín so much to see the opposite happen. Denver’s fascinated with anything Berlin does. He listens to Berlin’s bullshit spews like they actually mean something. He follows him around, not like an enamoured dog, but like a duck hunting a trail of crumbs.

There’s another awkward moment when the others are playing football outside. Martín and Nairobi don’t take part because they actually have important things to discuss with the Professor. That doesn’t stop Berlin from tailing Martín, as if he has any right to listen in on these conversations. It also doesn’t stop Denver from sticking his head in the door and calling out, “Berlin! We’re starting another game- join us!”

And a scoff on his lips, Andrés taps the floorboard with his polished leather shoes. “Look at these, look closely. Do you actually think I’d play in the mud with this?”

“Just take them off!”

“And run barefoot in the grass? No, I’d rather not. The thought disgusts me.”

Martín chuckles then, pushing Berlin towards Denver with a light shove. “Go play with your boyfriend, the adults are talking.”

Before Berlin can retort, Denver’s already in front of him and pulling off his own sneakers.

“Then take my shoes!” he says, tossing the pair at Berlin, “I’ll go barefoot. And you won’t- problem solved.”

“You idiot- we’re not even the same size!”

“You don’t know that!”

Denver’s shoes are slightly bigger than Berlin’s own. But that doesn’t stop Denver from getting him to put on the sneakers anyway. He stoops to tie the laces for Berlin and then drags him out to their game in the sun. Martín watches from inside when Sergio goes over things he already knows

Eventually, Moscow begins paying Berlin more mind, and that’s when Martín knows Denver’s crossing a good few lines.

There’s the fact that Denver touches Berlin whenever he can, a pat on the arm, a clap to the back, an arm around his waist, saying things like, “Hey, you look really good in this- bet it’s expensive,” and “I don’t think you need to spend all that time in the bathroom, you’re like, the hottest guy I know” and “dude, you smell nice.”

Martín doesn’t think Berlin’s happy with the attention, but he certainly enjoys the boosts to his ego. He certainly enjoys the bizarre way Denver dotes on him.

“Berlin, over here!” is a phrase Martín hears a lot, followed by Denver’s fucking laugh, sometimes accompanied with, “Papá, can you move over? Hey, hey, Berlin, over here!”

Once, Martín stays up drinking in the kitchen. And he overhears them in the living room, sharing a bottle of white wine.

“What are you gonna do after this?” Denver asks, “with all that money?”

“You wouldn’t understand. But I might invest in some vineyards.”

“Cool. Shit man, you’re always like- here- and I’m _here-”_ He laughs.

Martín can see enough from where he stands. He sees Denver’s hands in the air, his right held high above his head, and his left far below his thigh.

“That’s not accurate,” Berlin says, or perhaps Andrés in the moment.

He puts his hand around Denver’s wrist and pushes his left hand higher until it’s at least level with his chest. 

“You said I would teach you to be better, remember?”

Denver chuckles. “Yeah.” The hands drop. “You know what? Once we’re all rich, well when you’re richer and I’m rich, you can move in with me and Papá. We’ll all live in a vineyard.”

_“Why would I move in with you?!”_

Martín stops listening then. He sets his drinks aside and sits, feeling a strange unease towards Denver that he can’t quite place. It’s not envy, certainly not empathy. More of a curiosity, something that makes him wonder what it would be like if that was him with Andrés instead, twenty years younger. Or if Berlin was next to him, two decades older.

* * *

Martín also likes Julia because she never talks to him and minds her business. It also helps that she doesn’t have Denver’s fucking laugh. It’s not like she spends that much time in the house anyway. In his mind, he’s already labeled her the “spare member.” Though he wonders if it’s too late to ask Sergio to swap Julia for Tokyo, or better yet, Berlin.

Then Julia goes and pulls a shit prank on Martín. And he decides that she can go fuck herself too.

It’s the week after Rio and Tokyo returned from their tour of the Mint and Martín’s scheduled to go next. He doesn’t see the point. He already knows the damned place front and back, but Sergio insists it’s better for the team if they think he’s new to this as well. Taking the tour should be a breeze in itself, but Martín’s less enthusiastic about the partner he’s taking-- Berlin.

“Señor Palermo,” Berlin had said, dripping with vulgar ease, “I’d love to go with you.”

“Fuck off. Go with Denver.”

“Denver’s going with his father. And I’d also like to spend quality time with my _Papá.”_

Martín had thrown a piece of chalk at him and it’d crumbled into white powder against black hair. And as always, it did nothing to faze Berlin, nothing to rub the grin off his devilish face. Martín had relented in the end, not because he found the youth’s persistence charming in any regard, but because he knew Andrés had one thing in common with his brother-- unless he fucking died, he wasn’t going to give up on what he wanted.

“Fine! You can come, but call me ‘Señor’ anything again and I’m leaving you on the side of the road.”

And now Martín sits in the Professor’s beat-up old car, running the engine while he waits for Andrés to appear. A glance at his watch. Ten more seconds and he’s going alone. He places his hands on the wheel and that’s when Julia comes running, Denver laughing alongside her.

“Palermo! Palermo!” she says, “what’s your favorite color?”

Martín rolls his eyes. “What do you two want?”

“Is it red?” Denver asks, unable to keep his chuckles at bay, “come on, Palermo, is it red?”

“Maybe? Just fuck off or I’m running you two over.”

“You’re not going to wait for your date?” Julia makes a “tsk!” sound, mock disapproval in her eyes. “Kind of rude.”

“Okay! Did Berlin put you two up to this? What does that son of a bitch want this time?”

Denver puffs his cheeks, every nerve within fighting to hold in his next laugh. So Julia answers with a shrug. “You’ll see.”

“I’ll see? The fuck does that mean, I’ll fucking see what-”

Martín forgets what he’s saying when Julia turns her grinning face around to see whoever’s coming. Red. It’s a trenchcoat the color of blood, crimson chest and crimson waist, all the way down to the boots of black. Just like the trailing locks of wavy black hair, rolling off shoulders and framing their owner’s face. Martín’s about to ask who this is. Then he recognizes the fucking face and almost falls nose-first into the horn. 

And hips swaying, Berlin taps on the car roof with a hand half-gloved in dark silk. He grins, those lips curving into a smile painted dark red. The sunglasses slip slightly and Martín can even see the shadow of eyeliner on his lids. 

Denver’s eyes never leave Andrés’ ass. Martín can’t look away from his fucking face. And Julia just laughs her lungs out.

“Isn’t he pretty?” she teases, “we used my lipstick.”

“What the fuck is this!?” Martín cries as Berlin slips into the passenger seat with a crooked smirk.

Fingers adjusting the scarf around his black turtleneck, between the flaps of red coat, Berlin says, “It’s from my Carmen Sandiego cosplay- do you like it?”

Martín doesn’t know what that means, nor does he want to know. “Is this your fucking kink!? What the hell?”

Berlin twists a lock of hair from the wig around his fingers, and arching a brow, says, “Yes. It is my kink, actually.”

“Get out. I don’t want to be part of this.”

But Andrés puts on his seatbelt. “Too late, Palermo. _This turns you off right?_ This costume probably makes your dick as flat as a runover worm.”

“I’ve never been more flaccid in my life.”

It’s true. Martín scowls, glaring holes in the back of Berlin’s head when he leans right to check the lipstick on his mouth. Perfect glossy petals of cherry red. If he was straight, _maybe_ Martín would be stunned speechless because all things considered, Andrés makes for a beautiful bitch. But Martín isn’t into women or drag, and certainly not asshole young men by the name of de Fonollosa.

“What are you waiting for, Palermo?” Berlin turns back to him, teeth nipping at an index finger. He pops the finger out and grins. “We’ll be late if you don’t go now.”

“Have fun!” Julia calls from outside.

Martín rolls up the windows, drowning out Denver’s stupid laugh in the process. Then cursing Andrés, he drives on. To his credit, Berlin is quiet at first, content with keeping his arms crossed and letting the scenery pass them by. Martín almost thinks he’ll be quiet the whole way and just when he lets his guard down, Berlin speaks:

“Are you really having sex with Helsinki?”

Martín snorts, nearly choking on his own chuckle. “What do you think? We’ve been fucking since day one.”

Berlin falls silent. Then he says, rather awkwardly, “Is he good?”

“He’s amazing.”

Martín sees Berlin pursing his lips in the rearview mirror. And a little tickled, he asks, “Are you jealous?”

“I’m incapable of jealousy,” is the very jealous response.

“Keep telling yourself that.” And then Martín says, “Your turn. Are you fucking Denver?”

He means it as a joke, but something changes in Berlin’s face, a little spike of surprise. 

“He wanted to. I said no.”

“No? Why not, you’d make a great couple- you’re equally stupid.”

Berlin laughs dryly, a roll of eyes in Martín’s direction. “He only wants me when I’m dressed like this. I can tell.”

Martín’s not sure if he imagined the twinge of hurt in Berlin’s tongue, but he doesn’t want to dwell on it. He doesn’t want to think about Denver fondling the wig on Andrés’ head either. And just when the younger man almost has Martín feeling sorry for him, Berlin lets out a noise, a long _“ah a a a a a”_ that’s the exact replica of Denver’s fucking laugh. They almost steer off the road.

“Fuck!” Martín cries, “what the fuck was that!?”

“I’ve been practicing that laugh. What do you think- is it like the original or is it better?”

“Do that again and I’m kicking you out!”

Berlin chuckles- normally- and reaches into his coat. “Fine. Since you’re so adverse to entertainment, what about this?”

And pulls out a cassette tape. Martín doesn’t give him permission to push it into the player, but Andrés does so anyway. He hums along when the tune comes out, a melody Martín knows by heart.

“What did you do to it?” he asks, a good second later, when it finally dawns on him that the cassette’s blasting an electric guitar rendition of Por Una Cabeza.

Berlin wiggles his fingers in the air. Proudly. “I played it myself.”

“When did you get the time- ah, don’t answer that. I don’t give a fuck. Do whatever you want.”

The younger man splits himself into a grin again. “You like it. I was hoping you would.”

He brushes a hand over Martín’s shoulder and says, “I loved this tune since I was eighteen. You gave me a CD for my birthday and this was the only song on it.”

Martín remembers the CD. He doesn’t remember the song. He was probably clearing things from his home and thought it’d be a waste to throw the CD away. There hadn’t been a slip or anything- it was just a disc that could maybe still work. And he certainly doesn’t expect Andrés to keep it.

“Oh,” is all Martín says, trying to keep his unease at bay, an emotion not unlike what he’d felt at the metro station in Berlin seven years ago. As if saying anything more would unleash a flood of things he’d sworn not to feel for Sergio’s brother that night.

“This is your scarf too,” Berlin tells him as he thumbs red fabric, that grin settling into a resigned smile. “I kept it because I had the biggest crush on you- since high school, I knew I was in love with Martín Berrote.”

Martín’s glad Berlin’s dressed as a woman. It stops him from feeling anything more for the other man. But now his throat runs dry and he knows he should say something, anything to stop Berlin’s words in their tracks. But he doesn’t. 

“Why are you telling me this now?” he asks, voice level.

“We might not make it out of the Mint. So I wanted you to know.”

 _You little shit,_ he thinks, _you should’ve kept that shit to yourself._ But Martín knows he’s right. Sergio himself must know too-- not all of them were leaving the Mint. Which is why Berlin, no, Andrés, couldn’t have picked a worst time to say this.

“I don’t feel the same way,” Martín tells him, “I don’t love you. I never will.”

Best to nip it in the bud now. Andrés is off limits. For Sergio’s sake. For the heist’s sake. For Berlin’s own sake. He should be playing football with Denver and Rio, not latching himself to someone like Martín-- and a part of Martín’s always known that.

“Palermo,” Andrés says, a little condescending, “you’re a terrible liar.”

* * *

They don’t talk for the rest of the trip, Martín still mulling over the younger man’s words, and Andrés dozing off every now and then. When they reach a red light in the city, Andrés yawns into a glove and takes off the shades to squint. 

“You do realize everyone’s going to think I’m a bastard right?” Martín says, “I’ll look like a dirty old man with a mistress half my age.”

“You’re so negative, Palermo,” Andrés says in a mewl, “they’ll just think I’m a sexy young woman with a sugar daddy.”

“If the whole reason you dressed like this is to get me involved in some sick fantasy of yours, I’m telling your brother how fucked in the head you are.”

“What makes you think he doesn’t know my kinks?”

“Excuse me-”

“We share everything with each other. Sergio’s always been very _cool.”_ Andrés rubs a hand down his waist. “I’m wearing a corset right now, actually.”

The light turns green. Martín steps on the gas, unwilling to process that information.

“When I was oh- fourteen?- I told Sergio I thought girls were weak.” Andrés smacks his lips, no less crimson than before. “And you know what he did? He went out and bought a fucking corset. He told me if I could spend the day in one, I could say anything I wanted about girls. I lasted about four hours.”

Martín wants to say he doesn’t believe the tale. But he can’t. That sounds like the exact type of thing fucking Sergio would do. 

“Do you see a parking spot?” he mutters, glaring daggers at the car honking from behind.

Andrés pushes a lock of false hair behind his ear. “Go a little farther- anyway, I gained a great respect for women that day but I didn’t think _I_ was any weaker so I kept the corset and now I’m a pro. Want to try it, Palermo?”

“No fucking way. I’m not a masochist.”

Andrés smirks, like he doesn’t quite believe Martín. Again, an uncomfortable shiver runs down his spine-- it’s uncomfortable precisely because of how _comfortable_ it is. 

“Let me guess,” Martín says, swerving the car into an empty spot, right between a van and taxi, “Sergio made you watch videos of mothers giving birth after that?”

“How did you know?”

“I’ve known your brother for twenty years. Sounds like the kind of creepy shit he’d do.”

“Sergio’s not creepy,” Andrés retorts, snapping to the defense in an instant, “he’s an excellent teacher, and if you paid attention in his class, you’d know.”

Martín turns off the engine. Then he taps his noggin with a finger. “His lessons are burned into my brain- I think I pay more attention than you.”

He doesn’t give Andrés the chance to reply. Martín steps out of the car. But the younger man stays seated. So Martín crosses to the passenger door and pounds on the window.

“Stop fucking around,” he growls, “get out.”

“I’m waiting for my husband to open the door for me.”

“Fuck you.” But Martín opens the door anyway, rolling his eyes when Andrés extends a hand, as if Martín’s supposed to help the lady out like some gentleman. But Martín does that too.

Andrés folds his hands into the crook of Martín’s arm and Palermo tells him, “You look like a whore.”

“But I’m your whore, papá.”

Then he laughs at the look on Martín’s face. On the walk to the Mint, Andrés thankfully stays silent, content with batting his lashes at Martín every now and then instead (but he’s doing it from behind sunglasses like a fool). Martín isn’t sure if the worst or best part is the fact that people, mostly men, are turning heads towards them, no doubt captivated by the bombshell on Martín’s arm.

When they finally get to the Mint, Martín’s tempted to tell everyone staring at them, “Hi, I’m gay. This is not my girlfriend. Or my partner, or my anything- this is my co-worker’s shitty little brother.” But he just nods and politely passes through security like everyone else.

There’s not much for Martín to do in the halls of the Mint, but since he’s here, he decides to go over the paths again. He commits the restrooms to memory, the placards on the walls, and most importantly, the cameras up high. Andrés takes it more seriously than Martín expects- he doesn’t say a word the whole time, purposely checking for as many blind spots and cameras as he can, the shades dangling in one pocket. 

At some point, Martín goes to the restroom and does his business. He’s pretty sure Rio and Tokyo fucked each other in one of these stalls. Sergio’s told them all to memorize the restrooms- those will be the closest things their hostages have to safe havens. Okay.

When he comes out, ready to tell Andrés to do the same, he sees him standing by a display of vintage doubloons. And there’s another man chatting beside him, an asshole with combed dark hair and an important suit. Martín knows him from Sergio’s files, Arturo Román. He’s staring at Andrés like a drooling wolf, but Martín can tell the bastard thinks he’s making a good impression, a real charming gentleman. 

“I’m the Director,” he hears the guy say, “I have to go back to work soon, but if you’d like to know anything now, I’m happy to help.”

Andrés nods, a thin smile on his face. And that’s when Martín strolls over, casually slapping an arm around the younger man’s waist. It doesn’t stop Andrés from being half a head taller than him, but it does stop _Arturito_ from saying anything more.

“Everything alright, _cariño?”_ Martín asks.

Then to the director, he says, “Sorry, sir. My wife, she’s foreign- her Spanish isn’t very good, she’s not being rude on purpose.”

Román says some things to them, but Martín doesn’t care. He cuts him off with a “thank you” and then takes Andrés off to the side.

“My hero,” Andrés whispers in his ear.

“You’re enjoying this aren’t you, son of a bitch?”

“Very much.”

They don’t make it to the restroom. Martín senses that Román is still watching them, and maybe Andrés does too. Because that’s when he presses himself to Martín’s chest and catches his mouth in his own. Martín tells himself they’re doing it as a cover and he can’t very well push Berlin away in public, can he? Besides, he’s Palermo now.

And Palermo opens his lips, enough to let Andrés’ tongue slip through, pass Martín’s own and to the tip of his throat. And if there’s a moan or two, nobody hears. When Andrés finally pulls away, his lipstick’s smeared, like someone’s punched him in the mouth and left a smudge of blood on his cheek. Martín wipes his own lips with the back of a hand, the taste of gloss and makeup on the edge of his tongue.

“Go clean yourself up,” Martín tells Andrés.

“Are you horny?”

Arturo Román is gone by then, no doubt caught off guard by their display. They have no more reason to keep it up. And they’ve already seen what they came to see. 

“Yeah,” Martín says, “I think I am- but-”

“But what?”

“Not like this,” he mutters.

“Enunciate. I can’t read your mind.” Andrés enjoys watching him squirm, the conflict in his eyes, all of it- but the truth is, Martín stopped struggling five minutes ago. Fuck Sergio, fuck Berlin, and fuck himself.

“I wanna rip the wig from your head, tear that fucking corset apart- I want you, I want you like I want a man.”

Andrés puts a thumb and finger to Martín’s chin. And gently strokes, a low, “Why didn’t you just say so?” following his teasing tongue.

Then he leaves to wipe the lipstick off. 

* * *

Andrés complains about the inn he picked, but Martín doesn’t give a fuck. They’ll be in there two hours tops and he’s not wasting money on a five star hotel if they’re not actually staying the night. All they need is a bed and bathroom, and a door that locks (or not, it’s not like Martín actually cares).

As soon as the door to their room shuts behind, Martín grabs Andrés by the scarf, yanking him forward so he can taste his tongue. Then it’s Andrés pushing him against the wall, the red coat falling at a heap around his feet while he slams his lips over Martín’s own, tongue against teeth and teeth against tongue. Their hips grind and Martín moans, groaning hard when Andrés grabs his crotch.

“Shit, shit,” he gasps, “Andrés, take off the fucking wig-”

Martín grabs him by both wrists and then they’re on the bed, Andrés tearing open the buttons of his shirt with his teeth. But Martín thinks he’s too fucking slow. He pushes Andrés away and begins pulling down his pants-- he never wore underwear anyway.

Andrés rips the scarf off. He throws out his sweater, pulling the black over his shoulders, and shit- Martín sees the corset, right there, laced tight around his waist. 

“How do I look?” Andrés asks him, a sideways gaze, so full of cockiness that Martín can’t hold it in anymore.

“Beautiful,” Martín says.

“Powerful?”

“Yes.”

“And-”

“Come here and fuck me!”

“Whatever you wish, papá- I’ll be a good boy.” His pants slide off next, and Andrés is sitting atop Martín’s erection, rocking back and forth while the older man moans.

“Stop- stop calling me that,” Martín says, practically heaving.

His fingers tremble above the bow of Andrés’ corset. He wrenches the lace apart. Then the X in the center, and finally the bottom. And when it’s loose enough, Andrés wriggles out, putting his weight on Martín’s torso, his hard cock against Martín’s own.

“I respect my elders,” he says in a husky growl, “where do you want me, Palermo? Above or beneath? Or- somewhere else?”

He straddles Martín’s waist, and then retrieving the red scarf, ties it around his own eyes. “Be my guide, sir. Make me feel you.”

“On top, shit-”

Andrés descends, nibbling along Martín’s skin until he finds a nipple and- fuck, he chews- then he keeps going, all the way down until Martín feels his lips around his dick. And his lips are every bit as warm and soft as they were around his mouth. Fuck. 

Fuck.

Then Andrés twists his legs around Martín’s thighs. He puts two fingers in his own mouth. Slick with saliva, they come out and Martín opens wide when Andrés sticks them between his lips. He tastes Andrés and he tastes himself.

“Where now, sir?”

He can’t speak with those fingers inside. Martín sucks along- fuck, those are the most beautiful hands he’s ever seen. He wants to bite down until blood comes out. When he spits Andrés’ digits out, he says, “You know where- let’s finish this, fuck, you son of a bitch-”

Andrés chuckles. And he wiggles around Martín, hands- beautiful hands- roaming around the older man like a fucking sculptor. A palm grabs the back of Martín’s head and twisting hair, pushes him into the pillow behind. Andrés enters his ass, his member slick with lube. 

“Your cock’s pathetic!” Martín shouts.

Fuck, it’s not the biggest he’s had, but fuck, it feels good. Just the right size to push in and out. And Andrés doesn’t stop. He plows on like a bull on red, until finally, Martín feels the climax come. And he yells for them to stop- or maybe he just yells.

Either way, the next thing he knows, they’re tangled in each other’s arms and matted with sweat on terribly soaked sheets. Martín peels the scarf from Andrés’ eyes, the makeup having smeared during what they did, leaving a mask of grey over those dark eyes. And fuck, he still looks so good.

“How was I?” Andrés asks, out of breath.

Martín smirks. “You were… okay.”

* * *

Martín stays in bed while Andrés showers. At some point, he goes in and pulls the curtain aside so he can lock lips with Andrés while the water runs. Then he steps in and lets the water rinse him off. After that, there’s only one bathrobe so he lets the younger man have it. 

“When do we go back?” Andrés asks him from the edge of the bed, wiping off his hair with a towel.

“When I have the energy,” Martín says, “Professor’’s going to want to talk about the Mint and he won’t shut up until morning.”

Andrés chuckles. Then squeezing the towel in his hands, he looks to Martín with a quiet gaze. “Last year- today- I came out to him.”

Martín’s about to say, “as what, a bastard?” when the bob of Andrés’ throat stops him. The younger man purses his mouth. Breathes.

“I said I was attracted to more than women. He said he already knew.” He lets go of the towel. “Martín, was it that obvious?”

Martín. Not Palermo. Not sir. Not Señor Berrote. There’s a slight quiver to his lip, a tremble so small it was easily missed. But Martín did not miss it. He sits up and rubs a hand over Andrés’ hair. Of course fucking Sergio would answer like that. Martín wasn’t there, but if he was, he’d have a few choice words. 

“Does it matter?” he says, “you’re a son of a bitch either way. I’m kind of jealous, really, that you have a brother to tell.”

Andrés’ quiver turns to a smile, and Martín adds, “Besides, Sergio can be an idiot- you of all people should know.”

“I knew you cared about me.” 

Martín pinches a strand of hair and removes his hand. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

Andrés laughs. Then he says, quiet, “Martín, I know you think I’m a son of a bitch. Maybe I am. But I’ll do whatever you say at the Mint. I’m not going to mess this up for you and Sergio.”

He meets Martín’s gaze, a deadly seriousness in his eyes. “No matter what.”

But Martín only smiles and says, “I’m going to take a piss. Then let’s go.”

* * *

When they get back to the house, Andrés isn’t in a corset or wig anymore, but fucking Denver’s the first to rush out anyway. He’s saved Berlin a slice of pizza or something, and he goes on and on in the other man’s ear about some party down the street or whatever.

“I’m not going, and neither should you,” Andrés tells him.

And Denver only laughs. 

Once he locks the car, Martín follows them inside. Something’s been bothering him the whole trip back and he’s probably going to regret doing this in the morning, but fuck it. He doesn’t know what the rest of their group is doing, nor does he care. But he finds Sergio by the fireplace in the dining room, flicking through photos of the elder Marquina.

“You came back late,” the Professor says, before Martín even has a chance to say a word.

“I came back, didn’t I?”

“Did Berlin give you trouble?”

Speak of the devil.

“No, not really. But I want to talk about him.”

Sergio turns then, a bit of orange glaring off his lenses. “Go ahead.”

“He can’t come to the heist. You can’t let him near the Mint.”

“Martín? What- he’s always been a part of this. We need him-”

“No. We don’t.” Martín walks up to him, lifting his chin until he’s level with Sergio (fuck him for being tall). “He knows the Mint’s everything to you. _But you’re everything to him.”_

He puts his hands on Sergio’s shoulders, hoping some physical contact will make the other man see his concerns. It hurts to say, but Martín forces the words out anyway:

“He’ll die in there, Sergio. He’ll fucking die to please you.”

“Martín, I’m not removing him from the plan. We can’t do that now.” He puts a hand over Martín’s. “He knows it better than you. And I’ll make sure everyone comes out alive-”

“Fuck you!” Martín shrugs Sergio away, his own hands coming free. Unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable.

“Okay, listen- listen- I know you’re doing this for some family dream or some shit, but your father’s dead. _Andrés is alive._ Can’t you see that?”

He jabs a finger in Sergio’s chest, blood boiling. “Think of something to get rid of him! I’ll shoot his dick off in the morning, send him to jail, push him down some stairs- just don’t let him be part of this.”

Sergio’s taken aback, but he composes himself soon enough to say, “Martín-” before it turns into an unexpected, _“Hermanito-”_

Martín twists around in time to see Andrés standing in the doorway, features as passive as stone. Then Berlin turns his back to them, storming away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming to the end soon. Thanks for reading!
> 
> EDIT: Just realized I spelled Manila's name wrong this whole chapter (!!???). It has been corrected omg.


	3. Pause: Scratch Disc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for following this thing :'D I am still in Shock that this managed to get more than 2 kudos and even has comments(!???). 
> 
> I wanted this to be the last chapter, but it's not (RIP). We'll call it the Andrés POV. This one is dedicated to the people who project onto Andrés because you want to date Martín (you might be in the minority, but I know you exist). And again, endgame berlermo, some Denver/Berlin on the side.
> 
> Warnings: implied child abuse, Andrés being pretentious

_“Sometimes you have to pretend you care even if you don’t.”_

Andrés thinks over Palermo’s words- Martín’s words- when he sits. He hasn’t given it much thought, but now he does. He’s never spoken to the man before, nor did he feel the need to. But he remembers Martín’s fingers on his hair, almost angry as they brushed the tomato juice from his head. Martín Berrote was offended and Andrés still doesn’t know why.

He looks down at the fork in his hand. Steel, because he doesn’t like the way plastic bounces off his food. He pokes the lunch Sergio packed, plain pasta with olive oil, nicely boxed by a little bag of apple slices. _Head down, eyes low, look away from them so they look away from you._ That’s the philosophy his brother lives by, and one way or another, Andrés has picked it up. 

It works for Sergio. But not always for Andrés. He remembers burying his face in Sergio’s back, some drunkard laughing at their scooter. Sergio told him not to be scared. They ignored the man and nothing happened. But Andrés hadn’t been scared. He had been-

He doesn’t know. He’s sure Martín Berrote doesn’t keep his eyes low. Or else he wouldn’t have yelled at Andrés for running into him. Or else he wouldn’t have said all those things to him, things Andrés is still trying to process. Others can process, he knows. Andrés can’t. He thinks of the paper cranes Sergio makes.

They used to sit and fold them together, but origami never calms Andrés down. It gives him something to do, nothing more. His classmates are like those cranes, shapes and colors that make sense, perfectly still on Sergio’s desk. Andrés is more like a paper plane, stripped of color from day one, and a sheet of creases once taken apart. Paper planes don’t belong on Sergio’s desk- Andrés throws them out the window, not quite caring where they land, and in primary school, his teachers had tossed them straight into the waste bin.

Luis knocked him into waste bins a number of times. And laughed when Andrés fell straight down. He never sits up because there isn’t much point. He stays silent, just like he used to when Mother cupped his face with her weak hands, whispering that he’d die just like her, slow, pained, and in his own piss. Luis’ taunts are nothing, the bruises he leaves little more than that- they fade by the weekend and Andrés is none the worse. No damage can be done to something incomplete.

But Martín didn’t look at him like he was something incomplete. 

Andrés lifts the fork to his mouth, but the pasta never touches his tongue. He’s pushed before he even knows. The bowl hits the floor, noodles spilling as the apples tumble down. He sees the edge of his sleeve first, then feels the tiles beneath his face, something purple no doubt blossoming on his head. Luis and his friends laugh.

Head down, eyes low.

Andrés imagines Sergio’s voice, the crane in his brother’s hands. But he sees Martín instead, the angry flash in his blue eyes.

And he remembers Luis smashing his head into the bathroom mirror. The footballs they threw at his chest. His books tossed down the stairs. Pencils snapping. Andrés never screams or cries or anything else. Not in front of his mother’s gaunt face, or his father’s belt (never reacts to mother’s nails on his cheeks or father’s hand twisted in his hair). He cleans the blood off his face, smooths the wrinkles from his shirt, and goes home, silent while the boys laugh behind his brother’s back. Silent when he sits under the teacher’s glare. Silent when Sergio asks what happened to his head. Perhaps a shrug.

He doesn’t care. He’s not allowed to care. But the fork is still in his hand.

_“Listen, sometimes you have to pretend you care even if you don’t. Or it’s going to get worse,” Martín had said._

Look away from them so they look away from you.

He remembers Luis dumping juice on his hair, and Andrés hadn’t even blinked. He remembers the therapist’s anxious stare, the suggestions he had for Sergio. Andrés does not think himself broken. Rather, never whole, missing something core to human beings (but Martín had acted as if it was everyone else missing what Andrés had instead).

His fingers tense around the fork. For once, he does not think of what Sergio would do.

“Do you get off to it?” he says.

Luis is still laughing when he hears Andrés’ voice. He turns then, and snorts. “Did you say something, freak?”

“I said,” Andrés drawls, climbing to his feet. He sways, just a little before he’s steady. “Do you get off to it- laughing at me?”

He thinks of what Martín Berrote would do, and he feels something long unused- anger.

“Why don’t you say that again?” Luis mocks, stepping towards him.

Then the cafeteria screams. Before Luis draws a punch, Andrés plunges the fork into his crotch. He watches Luis bleed and shout and beg. 

“Come on, laugh!” Andrés cries.

Andrés feels nothing for the pain he caused. But he feels at ease, as if he’s avenged himself, Sergio, and even Martín.

He doesn’t want to look away from anyone anymore. Look at them, and if they don’t like it, spit in their face. He likes that motto just a bit more. He’s expelled for what he did to Luis and he knows Sergio isn’t proud. Even so, he doesn’t hear a word of Sergio’s lecture when he gets home, barely flinches when his brother raises his voice, a firm “Hermanito, look at me when I speak,” from his tongue.

And what if I don’t? Andrés almost snaps back. He’s never snapped at Sergio before, never even wanted to.

But as angry as Sergio is (disappointed), he doesn’t turn Andrés out as he expects, doesn’t say Andrés was every bit as rotten and maladjusted as the others had said. Sergio only sends him to his room so he can think. Andrés stays up through the night, no light in his room. He opens the window and climbs out, up the sill and to the roof. If he falls, so be it, but he makes it in one piece. And as he sits, legs dangling in the air, a breeze on his skin and paper swans in his palms, he remembers something else.

He remembers when he was ten, eleven, maybe twelve, and still unused to Sergio’s home. He remembers creeping through the house in the dead of night and stealing a folder from Sergio’s shelf. It’s filled with notes- he can read, but he doesn’t understand- clinical, quick, and true. An analysis of Andrés, the way his mind works, the way Sergio assumes he functions- it’s all true, even if he couldn’t understand half of what Sergio wrote. But something clenched in his chest, a heavy snap that hurt more than the bruises still kissing his ribs. Andrés had shut the file with a light clap, tiptoed back to his then-empty room, and crawled into bed.

Now he feels it again. It comes back like a crack in porcelain, great enough to split in half. The swans leave his hands in a rain of paper. They fall, but for an instant, he sees them glide, almost fly. And Andrés thinks- how great it would be to fly, like Icarus to the sun. 

He weeps, like he did back then, and chokes on the sob in his throat. And it’s the best thing he’s ever felt.

* * *

For all his reprimands, Sergio does not punish Andrés for the incident at school. He grounds him for the next month and forces him to use plastic spoons, but nothing else. Andrés can hear him speak in his study though, on the phone with a lawyer or perhaps someone else. Luis’ parents are understandably upset with what Andrés did. The school as well, he knows. He has no doubt they want him arrested, probably worse.

“Why didn’t you take action for what the other boys did?” he hears Sergio say on the phone, to the principal maybe, “where were you when they pushed Andrés off the stairs? Yes, I do have the records.”

Sergio doesn’t have the records, but now he somehow does, all sorts of documents on the alleged injuries Luis and his friends caused in the past. Andrés had thought Sergio didn’t know, had thought staying quiet was enough. But it seems that Sergio is angrier with the school than with him. In the end, the incident’s settled with a heap of money from Sergio’s last heist (the last test robbery). 

“From now on,” Sergio says to him later, “you tell me everything, hermanito. Can you do that?”

Andrés doesn’t answer. He wraps his arms around Sergio’s shoulders instead, hugging him like a boy. Sergio has never been good at hugging. But he’s the only person Andrés has ever wanted to hug. When they next hug, it’s at the airport. Sergio doesn’t want him to stay in Spain, so he sends him abroad to Berlin and whatever Andrés studies is up to himself.

But before then, Martín visits a few more times. On Andrés’ eighteenth birthday, Sergio gives him two gifts, a new yeasel to take abroad and a scratched CD from Martín. They pop a bottle of red wine- not juice- and for once, Sergio lets him have more than one glass. That night, Andrés plays the CD, a familiar tango tune in his ears. Por Una Cabeza is the only song on Martín’s disc and the quality isn’t great. But Andrés hums along.

His feet shuffle, a light rhythm in his bones. Sergio doesn’t dance. And neither does Andrés. Until now. 

Then Andrés remembers eyeing Martín on their couch, his head slumped on one shoulder, light snores from his nose. Martín’s hair is a dusky shade of brown, thick at first glance but soft under Andrés’ palm. Andrés prefers to think of Martín’s hair as a dark shade of gold. 

He sticks gum in Martín’s hair because he wants the man to wake up, wants to see the palette of his eyes. But he takes Martín’s phone because his fingers itch, because he could.

“You little shit!” is the first thing Martín says to him when he wakes, yanking out the patch of gum.

“You shouldn’t steal from Señor Berrote,” is the only thing Sergio tells him. Not _you shouldn’t steal at all._

Sergio makes him kneel before Martín. Andrés says “sorry” but it feels like “thank you” on his tongue. Icarus before the sun.

Martín calls him a little fucking bitch, but Andrés barely hears. He lifts his head enough to look Martín in the eyes. Sea blue, almost a shade of green. Martín yells at Sergio and leaves their house in a huff.

Andrés makes one final painting before he leaves for Germany. It’s a portrait of a man, his eyes made of sea and his hair dark sun. With his fingers, Andrés smears light red across the lips. It’s the closest thing he can make to a kiss. He tightens the corset around his waist, bits of paint trailing down its curve. And Martín’s song plays from the old disc.

“Can I see the new painting?” Sergio asks from outside his room.

“No.”

“What- why not?” Sergio demands, somewhat shocked.

Andrés shrugs. “It’s not for you.”

* * *

The bits and pieces of Andrés come together in Berlin. He thinks of them as unconnected parts, more like dabs of a brush than chunks of a machine. A watercolor in reverse, faded paint to vibrant tone. They were always there, he thinks. He’s always been proud, mad, wild with joy-- it’s always been there. He just hadn’t known.

He still feels the thrill when he lifts a man’s change or his professor’s keys. He felt it a few times before, when he’d accompanied Sergio on those tests; on the train heist, he’d sat on board the whole time (in a light sundress and coffee wig, no different from any other schoolgirl of fifteen). It excited him to be there (but as always, he’d kept his head down and eyes low). He first saw Martín that day, a passing glimpse of Palermo at the station. He hadn’t cared, but he’d remembered the man’s accent- Argentinian, a touch rough and kindly all at once- like the sting of ale.

The difference now is that Andrés isn’t ashamed. He isn’t ashamed when he adds his name to the side of a graffiti-stained wall, the spray can rattling in his palm. Not ashamed when he strips in class, for the still-life study. Not when he knots Sergio’s old necktie around his throat. 

What reason have I to be ashamed? He thinks. Andrés is- for once- happy in his own skin. He’s happy with his mother’s eyes, his father’s hair, everything that used to give him pause, because those are his own eyes, his own hair. He always has been, he concludes, he just needed to know why.

Happiness curls around his chest, just as rage and sorrow edge across his ribs. Things he could only feel from across a lake, behind glass. He could mimic those things- mimic pain and joy and all that, but it always felt untrue. Perhaps because there was too much pain, so he scraped them away as he would with a knife against paint. But he welcomes it back now, welcomes back every bit of himself he tried to throw away.

Andrés is happy. So happy. And then Martín comes back.

* * *

Andrés knows Martín didn’t come to Berlin for him, can already tell Martín only came on Sergio’s request. But it sparks something in Andrés regardless, makes him want to fly towards Martín with wax wings, higher and higher until Martín looks at him with his sea-deep gaze. 

“Did you miss me?” Andrés asks him after Martín drags him from the club.

“I don’t miss sons of bitches,” Martín grumbles.

The sting of fondness in Martín’s voice is enough. But Andrés knows he can never settle for enough. So he laughs and says, “You’re as funny as I remember.”

Andrés puts most of himself on Martín, head still swimming with music and beer. He’s drunk, he knows, but not so drunk that he can’t walk on his own. He enjoys the weight of Martín’s hand on his waist, the careful way he tugs Andrés along. Martín’s always been like this-- words of salt and gentle touches. Andrés doesn’t feel that he can tell Martín everything just yet. But he wants to. And so, he does.

“Whenever I couldn’t sleep, Sergio would read to me,” he says, telling Martín anything that comes to mind. He wags a finger by Martín’s eye. “Not children’s books- oh no- he’d read encyclopedias, medical journals, things that made me so bored I’d start snoring-”

He laughs. “He’s a real great dad, did you know that, Martín? The most fantastic brother in the world! Maybe that’s why I turned out so well- because of Sergio."

“So you really love yourself now, don’t you?” Martín says, rather sourly.

Andrés presses his head into Martín’s neck. “Yeah.” Martín’s cologne smells like snow. “I’m handsome, talented, and cultured- I really like myself-”

This is the truth: “Which is a study in irony because the world never liked me, but I like the world so here I am.” 

He touches the buttons on Martín’s coat when Martín drags him down the stairs of the metro station. And Icarus can no longer resist the sun. Andrés wraps his arms around Martín’s neck, and close to him, asks-

“Do you like me?” 

Martín shrugs him off. Andrés stumbles until he finds a wall to steady himself. 

“The fuck are you doing!?” Martín snaps, “get a hold of yourself.”

“Okay. Okay- but answer this-”

Andrés senses something in the older man’s voice, perhaps because he’s drunk. But in that moment, he knows Martín is his. He knows Helios has seen Icarus approach. 

“How do I look?” Andrés asks..

“Like a piece of shit,” Martín hisses. But it sounds like, _beautiful._

So Andrés touches his face, waiting for Martín to pull away. But Martín doesn’t. Andrés smiles and traces the outline of Martín’s jaw, just as he had on his canvas so many times before. But Martín is more than oil on canvas. He’s warm flesh and bone, the tiniest bit of shaved stubble on his chin. 

Icarus kisses the sun, and for a moment, feels Helios kiss him back. _You made me,_ Andrés wants to tell him in that single touch of lips, _you are everything my wings strive to be, you are the wax around my bones._

Then Martín stops. He pushes Andrés off, burns his wings to a crisp.

“Don’t you want me?” Andrés asks.

Martín shakes his head. Go back to Daedalus. But Andrés cannot. Not when he’s come so close. 

What happens next is a blur. Andrés sits in silence on the train, doesn’t say a word as Martín leads him off. Martín doesn’t look at him, doesn’t even breathe his way.

And when Martín leaves him sprawled on the stairs of his flat, Andrés only stares at the cracks of the ceiling above. He can think of a thousand excuses in Martín’s head- _you’re too young, I don’t know you yet, I can’t because of your brother, I’m a son of a bitch, you’re a son of a bitch._

But none of it matters. Andrés is Martín’s. Ever since Martín wrapped his scarf around Andrés’ throat. It makes him angry. Because Andrés knows already- even with his wings burnt off, every bone smashed, Icarus will always yearn for the sun, if only for a glimpse. 

In the morning, Andrés doesn’t weep, doesn’t curse or wonder what went wrong. He rinses his mouth with mint and in the mirror, combs his hair with gel. He’ll make Martín look his way again, somehow. Yes, he thinks, he’ll make himself so beautiful that Martín cannot resist, like a peacock trying to call its mate. Not now, but perhaps one year later, or two or three. Four or five. Andrés can wait. 

Because he imagines Martín waiting too.

(And then Martín sends Andrés’ postcards, all so painstakingly crafted, back to Sergio’s house. Andrés is mortified when he sees the cards on the kitchen fridge. Did Martín not know how many hours he put into each card? For the perfect angle? The perfect moment away from crowds? But there’s one missing, of Andrés standing in the snow. Maybe Martín threw that one away. But it doesn’t matter- Andrés will just send him more.)

* * *

Five failed relationships later (three girlfriends, two boyfriends, and all an equal blur in his mind), Andrés- Berlin- lies on the wooden floor of a house in Toledo, lips brushed with velvet gloss and head atop a wig of long black curls. But it’s not Palermo on top of him. 

Denver’s tripped over an uneven floorboard. His head buries itself in Berlin’s shoulder, and ears pink, he tries to pick himself up.

“Shit,” Denver says, an awkward hand on Andrés’ chest, “sorry- I fell- are you okay?”

Berlin eyes him with some disdain. But an opinion is an opinion. “How do I look?”

And Denver says the same thing he did when he first walked into the room (unannounced, as always). _“Whoa.”_

“Ah, of course- ‘whoa’- the adjective of all connoisseurs.”

“I mean- you know how we said Tokyo was a Maserati?”

“I never said that. You did.”

Denver grins. “You were thinking it too, man. You’re just mad she prefers Rio.”

“Don’t project your insecurities onto me,” Berlin snaps.

“Okay, okay!” And Denver laughs, still leaning over Andrés. “If she’s a Maserati, you’re like a limousine. Just… whoa.”

Denver’s thumb touches his chin, so close that Berlin can almost nibble at its edge. 

“Whoa,” Denver mumbles.

His hands roam past Berlin’s false locks, into his real hair, and something gulps in Denver’s throat. He’s always looked at Berlin with some admiration, a dash of fondness, and a little too much affection. But this is entirely different, it’s a gaze Andrés has yet to see.

Denver comes closer, almost enough to press his lips to Berlin’s. There’s a tremble in his mouth, enough to tell Andrés the other man wants him. Wants him more than anything else. His hand darts to Denver’s crotch, grabbing enough to feel but not enough to crush. 

Denver groans. “Shit- ah- you’re good at this.”

“You’re awfully hard,” Berlin says, “so you want to fuck me?”

“I- yeah, yeah I do.”

In some ways, Denver reminds Andrés of the long-forgotten Luis. He’s called Denver many things- in his mind and to the young man’s face- brute, idiot, bastard. But Denver is nothing like Luis, nothing like the way Sergio’s file described. He’s many things Andrés is not: naive, kind, a piece of earth that Berlin knows he should leave unturned. A brute perhaps, but far from an idiot, far from a bastard, far from the kind of boy Andrés had assumed he was. 

“Well, I don’t,” Andrés tells him matter-of-factly.

Then he sits up, and Denver topples out of his lap. 

But there are things he doubts Denver can understand, even if Berlin says it word for word. He appreciates Denver’s gaze on his face, the desire in his throat, but he knows Denver does not truly want Andrés. Not if he only wants him dressed like this. 

And Berlin has only ever truly wanted one person.

“Berlin-” Denver says, as if he’s about to confess some great thing.

Then he shuts his mouth when Julia waltzes in. 

“Shit, Berlin,” she says with a light chuckle, “that shade doesn’t stand out at all.”

She dangles her lipstick before his eyes. “Try this one. Would really catch Palermo’s eye, hm?”

She bends to adjust his wig and while Andrés smirks, Denver rubs a hand behind his head and says, “Wait. Doesn’t Palermo like guys?”

Julia ribs him in the arm. “No shit! That’s why this is going to be fucking hilarious.”

“He’ll hate this,” Berlin tells them both. And he chuckles when the two laugh next, Denver’s laughter enough to drown his and Julia’s out.

* * *

Now their laughter is a lifetime ago. Andrés storms out of the grand house, away from his brother and away from Martín, no, Palermo. Icarus should never have looked at the sun, should never have let go of those wings and plunged into the sea (should never have thought himself anything in Helios’ eye). The sea swallows him whole, but he can still feel the edges of charred wax.

He hears Sergio call after him, but Martín grabs hold of his brother, their voices mixing with the crackle of fire behind.

Andrés marches across grass, night chill upon his face. He laughs into the air, a bitter sound not unlike his late father’s rasps. He thinks of the red in his scarf, made of a thousand crimson strings binding him to the man inside. And Martín has snipped every thread between.

What is Andrés now, but a fool in the wind? The same broken boy he was twelve years prior. But that boy had been better off, because he could not feel the things Andrés does now. That boy never tasted Helios’ kiss or felt his scarf around his neck, never thought himself better than what he was.

What more can he do, to prove himself worthy in Martín’s eyes? In Sergio’s eyes? He’s already plucked every bit of himself out and rearranged the parts, coated himself in paint and watched it dry. He feels the colors peel away once more, the paper plane behind each folded crane.

And something between rage and outrage, Andrés stumbles towards the car in front. He taps on the window, smashes his hand until it throbs. From inside, Denver stirs awake, an empty bottle of wine in his grip, Berlin’s own jacket around his shoulders. 

Panicking, he rolls the window down. “Fuck! Is it about your jacket? I was going to give it back in the morning- really!”

Denver fumbles with a button. And then Andrés hears himself say it, something cracked and wet in his single word:

_“Denver.”_

He hasn’t wept since he was seventeen. But he blinks away a tear now, then another. And then Denver‘s scrambling out of the car, the bottle in the grass, rushing at Andrés with hands around his cheeks.

“Hey, hey,” Denver says, wide awake, “what’d I say? I’m sorry, I’m sorry-”

Denver sloppily wipes away the tears with his sleeve (Berlin’s sleeve), and Andrés shakes his head, too tired to feel hot shame. 

“Was- was it Palermo?” Denver looks from Andrés to the house. “Fuck. I’ll go in there right now and fuck him up. I’ll fucking do it right now-”

“No.”

Andrés grabs his wrist, and he doesn’t know where, but he begins leading Denver away. Eventually, they find a patch of grass. They sit, shoulder to shoulder. Andrés hates sitting in the grass, hates the texture of dirt on his ass. But now he doesn’t care. 

Denver’s still babbling beside him, lots of curses and questions in his words. Andrés ignores them all. He turns and puts his arms around Denver, burying his face against a broad shoulder. Andrés doesn’t make a single noise, but he feels the sobs within, the raw stretch of pain from his throat to chest. 

“What’s going on here?”

Nairobi’s returned from the party down the street, somewhat drunk, and this is how she finds Denver and Berlin. She scoots beside them and puts a hand behind Andrés’ head. Andrés almost wants to laugh-- Nairobi’s barely even talked to him until now, unless it was to call him a stuck-up son of a bitch.

“Are you okay? Berlin?” she asks. And when he doesn’t reply, she says, “Denver, what the fuck did you do to him!?”

“What?” Denver’s head snaps up. “Why me!?”

“I don’t fuckng know. _You tell me.”_

“I didn’t-”

They argue on, voices just enough to distract Andrés from thinking of the men in the house behind. But eventually he can’t resist muttering, “Shut up. Please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments&kudos are always appreciated! Next chapter WILL be the last one, I promise, and we will back with Martín's much-less-pretentious pov. 
> 
> Spoiler: Happy ending guaranteed


	4. Side C: Conclusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first started this, I thought it would be a one or two-shot. I also thought this chapter would be 3K maximum. So once again, RIP @ me :;D
> 
> Anyway, thank you all again for your interest and for enabling me to continue this!! Technically, this is the last chapter but there'll be an epilogue that I couldn't fit this time (RIP myself, once more)
> 
> Warning: Palermo being a Problematic man and having a near identical "work ethic" to canon Berlin. Other notes: canon relationships mentioned

Martín has never been bad at physics. In fact, it was one of his best subjects. He remembers doing a project on quantum physics a lifetime ago, back in his first year of high school. It would be an understatement to say he was obsessed with living a different life. He remembers hating every inch of his skin, wishing he could peel it all away so he didn’t have to wake up each day and be Martín Berrote. He imagined a life for himself elsewhere, a world where all the atoms that made him up melted and reformed and built him into someone new, someone better, someone who could look himself in the mirror and grin.

The first time he liked the way his reflection looked, he supposes, is the day after his first robbery with Sergio. He’d felt alive then, like there was something about himself no one else could take away. It’s not a feeling that lasts and sooner or later, he always falls back into that cycle of cussing and drinking and rolling in cum, but it comes back one way or another-- and he might not love himself, but he’s fucking fine with himself in those moments, and being fine is the best feeling in the fucking world.

But now, while he clenches Sergio’s tie in his fists, the fire unbearably hot behind them both, Martín feels like that no-good kid again.

Maybe in some other lifetime, some other possibility, he’ll release Sergio and follow Andrés out of the house. He’ll grab the sulking man and smash their lips together. And he’ll tell him to come back. He’ll tell him to screw the heist and to get in the car. And Martín will drive them both away, never looking back.

But that’s not what happens. 

What happens is this: Sergio calls for his brother, but Berlin’s disappeared. Sergio runs after him and Martín grabs him by the sleeve, because he knows it’s useless to go after Andrés. 

“Sergio,” Martín says, enunciating the name, “please, have some fucking sense.”

“What happened?” Sergio asks, “why are you acting like this?”

Even when Martín’s about to hammer his face in, the professor’s as polite as can be. But Martín knows him, knows the steel behind his tongue. There’s an accusation here, a jagged sword that makes it sound like _Martín_ is the one beyond reason, that he’s the one doing what’s wrong. 

“I had an epiphany,” Martín tells him, “a fucking relevation. You and your brother, you both think you’ll go out like gods, don’t you?”

“Palermo-”

“But that’s not how it works, profe. Nobody’s going to give a shit when you die. A footnote in the news, and then what? Nothing, because you’ll be fucking dead.”

He pulls at the tie, forcing Sergio down to his level, the way he’s done to Andrés before. (Someone has to pull Icarus down to Earth. And wasn’t it Daedalus who made those fucking wings in the first place?)

“But you won’t be the one dying.” Martín gulps. A mean grin spreading. “Out of all of us, you’re the only one who can live- if you choose. But not him. He’ll be in there with me. And he’ll kill himself if you order it, even if all of us run out, he’ll stay and do it.”

That hits a chord, it seems. Because Martín finds his wrists crushed in Sergio’s grip next, the same calm gaze behind the other man’s eyes. But now it’s Sergio forcing him to listen. And shit- he has a grip- Martín always forgets that it’s pure muscle under those grandfatherly clothes.

“Andrés isn’t going to die,” Sergio says, “I’ve made sure of it. Because _you’re_ the one in charge. Are we clear, Palermo?”

“You’ll regret this,” Martín hisses, but he’s speaking more to himself. He should never have agreed to the Mint, should never have given Marquina the time of day.

The look in Sergio’s eyes is enough. He’s doing this with Andrés, whether Martín likes it or not. And the implication’s clear- the rest of them, they’ll work for Martín. But Berlin works with Sergio. And there’s no more room for discussion.

“Fuck you,” Martín spits. _Clear._

Sergio lets him go. Then rubbing his sore wrists, Martín stomps off, too livid to give the professor any backward glances. He goes to his room and rummages for some spare bottles of beer before he drinks himself to sleep. The heist is close and he has to, what, keep eight people alive, and control the sheep they’ve caught, while the professor watches from outside? Maybe he’ll shoot Berlin in the dick after all. Then his brother’s next.

But in the morning, Martín attends his last class and resolves to go through with the Mint anyway. Sergio and Andrés are going through with it one way or another, and if Martín doesn’t die with them, he’s not sure if he’ll be able to live after. Best case scenario, they leave with so much money he’ll never have to talk to Sergio again.

 _I’ll do it for me, and no one else,_ he thinks. 

And Berlin doesn’t talk to him the whole day, not even a curious glance. Meanwhile, fucking Denver glares at Palermo whenever they make eye contact, like that idiot has any stake in this. Martín flips him off. 

* * *

Five months is nothing compared to how long they spend in the Mint. Not even a week and it already feels like an eternity. At least twice, Martín wonders if he’s died and gone to purgatory. Because that’s how the heist fucking feels. Time fucking stops in the Mint, an hour a year and a minute a second. The only thing that reminds him of life outside those walls is the buzz of their landline, the professor’s steely voice on the other end.

Sergio has that thing about him, an odd charisma that makes you believe whatever he says. It’s not obvious at first. He starts off as just some bastard with glasses, no different from any other dogged guy. An awkward tongue. A shy frame. That’s how he lures you in, until you’re bent around his fingertips like a fucking puppet on string, and you don’t even notice the cool certainty in his voice until it’s much too late. Not arrogance, no. 

Certainty, a special confidence that only comes from someone who knows exactly what he’s doing.

And not for the first time, Martín wonders if the whole plan was a farce from the start, the story of Sergio’s father some elaborate lie, all of this a scheme to trick their idiot banda into oblivion. Well, if that’s the case, they don’t really have any other choice but to plow on. Once inside, there’s no going back. And like it or not, all their strings are in Sergio’s hands.

The heist is a dream, not a good one. But it’s not quite so bad that it’s a nightmare. It’s more like a drug-induced trip, a hallucination that goes on and on until one or two snaps of air remind Martín that it’s all reality. This is what happens- in order- to the best of Palermo’s fevered memory:

Infiltration goes by without a hitch. The hostages react as he expects- most terrified, some angry, all forced to their knees. And Alison Parker, their prize lamb, is there as well. The plan works perfectly. Too perfectly.

Not that Palermo minds. It feels good, actually, really fucking good to be in charge (or, to at least appear in charge). He puts on his best wicked cackle, which in honesty, isn’t that different from his usual laugh. He claps in their victims’ faces, makes a real big show out of the siege, probably says something like, “Would you believe it if I said we’re actors? I studied theatre! They said there was no money to be made from it- weren’t they fucking wrong? We’re living the hollywood dream here!”

Or maybe he makes the hostages clap instead. It hardly matters. They’re so terrified they do anything he says, and it makes his blood rush like fine red wine. 

To her credit, Nairobi keeps the energy up, plays it friendly when she can, runs cold when it’s needed. Oslo and Helsinki follow Palermo’s every order, the exact kind of muscle he needs to scare any rebels in the mix. He assumes Moscow and Denver do their jobs correctly. And Berlin, well, he’s decided to keep his Dalí mask on the entire time (which is just as well because Martín doesn’t want to see his shitty face anyway). Everything comes together in some fantastic orchestra, which Palermo admits could never have happened without all those tests Sergio conducted in the past.

And then-

It all goes wrong. In many, many ways.

Palermo’s always expected Tokyo to fuck them over in one way or another. He just doesn’t expect it to be on the first day. Because some bullet grazed Rio and she went off on a killing spree. At least, that’s how it looked to Palermo. 

He wonders how Sergio will fix Tokyo’s fuck-up. But before that, Palermo decides he can’t have anyone jeopardizing the heist. Leave together or die together. So he tells the Serbians to drag Rio out and bust a few ribs. That ought to teach Tokyo a lesson too.

And when the youth pleads, Palermo sneers and says, “You know how it is, kid. I’m heterophobic.”

And Palermo thinks that should be the end of that, but it isn’t.

The next to fuck up is Denver. Again, he’s not surprised but Palermo hadn’t expected it to be over something so dumb. All Denver needed to do was deliver an abortion pill. Instead, the son of a bitch decides to get into a pro-life debate with a pregnant blonde, like he’s the father of the fucking fetus. He even shoves money at her. And almost lets her get away with a phone in her pocket.

Palermo’s livid when he sees it happen. Idiocy has consequences- is that so hard to understand!?

In retrospect, it’s out of line for him to say what he says next, a blatant overstep of the professor’s rules, but Palermo’s so mad he doesn’t care:

“Kill her. What, can’t shoot women? Then step aside, and I’ll fucking do her in.”

“Palermo,” Denver begs, a pathetic dog, “she’s pregnant. We-”

“Even better! We’ll get rid of two problems with one bullet.”

Denver pales, but he doesn’t move. Palermo’s about to bark at him again, when another voice sounds from behind. Berlin’s.

_“Do what Palermo says.”_

He shoves the tip of his gun against Denver’s brow. And Palermo feels his lips twist into an ugly grin when betrayal colors Denver’s gaze. But Berlin’s still wearing Dalí’s face, as cold and unmoving as the steel in his hand.

When Denver takes the woman to the bathroom, Palermo strides up to Berlin. He whistles.

“Aren’t you going to lecture me?” Palermo says, “tell me about much you respect the fairer sex, what a bastard I’m being?”

Berlin lowers the gun. He could be looking past Palermo, or straight at him.

“It’s against the rules to kill. Remember that.” Then he gets closer. “But it’s as I said- you’re captain. I do what you say.”

Palermo frowns. He’s about to yank the mask off and tell Berlin not to be a snarky shit. But the younger man’s turned away by then, already en route to Nairobi and the machines. Maybe he means exactly what he says.

After all, it’s Berlin who suggests Palermo separate the hostages. Rotate them one group at a time, make them think their lives aren’t as precious as they think. 

“So, you want me to pretend to murder them?” Palermo asks.

Berlin shrugs. “Less messy than actually killing them, isn’t it?”

“You twisted son of a bitch.”

But Palermo goes through with the suggestion, mostly because he needs to keep himself on his toes and if he quells even more ideas of rebellion, even better. At some point, a hostage- one of the Mint employees- raises her hand and says, “Señor Palermo, can I speak with you- in, in private?”

But the terrified look in her eyes says she absolutely does not want to speak with him in private, whatever that means. The feeling’s mutual. He snorts and snaps, “Sit the fuck down. I’m gay.”

Then, to nip anything else in the bud, he says, looking in the direction Berlin’s gone, “He’s gay too. We’re all gay. We eat dick for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

(Much, much later, days after the whole mess, a relieved Ariadna Cascales will say Palermo’s words- in retrospect- helped her dodge a metaphorical bullet.)

Later, Rio comes limping back in, and Palermo thinks his soldiers didn’t do a good enough job otherwise the kid wouldn’t be up and about so soon. Evidently, Tokyo disagrees. Because then she has a gun pointed at Palermo’s face, snarling threats at him like she means every word.

“Touch him again,” she growls, “and I’ll rip your dick off. I’ll shove it down your throat and blast your brains out.”

And Palermo clicks his teeth. “I’d like to see you try.”

It’s Nairobi that comes to his aid. He doesn’t expect her to point her gun at Tokyo, but she does, a firm, “Let’s get back to work,” from her mouth. Miraculously, Tokyo obeys. 

But not before Palermo threatens to snitch on her fling with Rio. Maybe Palermo shouldn’t keep poking sticks into a rabid fire, but he does anyway. She tells him to go ahead, on the condition that he admits to ordering Gaztambide’s death.

 _And we’ll see who the professor punishes first,_ her eyes hiss.

So Palermo throws all his sticks into the flame and picks up the phone.

“I killed a hostage,” he says point blank, “told Denver to do it.”

Sergio’s taken aback on the other side, like he’s actually surprised that there’d be a hitch in his plan. Like he’s surprised Palermo doesn’t follow his code of ethics. Maybe Martín did. Palermo doesn’t. Palermo only cares about two things: getting out alive, and getting out free. And if someone dies at his hand, he’ll have time to feel guilty about it later. 

Better to feel guilty about the death of a stranger than the deaths of his colleagues, no? He tells the professor just as much and Sergio says he better not fuck up again. He doesn’t threaten Martín, but Palermo knows something’s coming his way. So be it. 

When Palermo’s sure nothing else can possibly happen, he learns that Arturo Román is the blonde’s lover, and presumably the father of her child. 

“Says a lot about Miss Gaztambide’s taste in men,” he tells Arturito with a smile. “But don’t worry, I have better taste than her. So stay out of my way and we’ll get along just fine, eh?”

But Arturito does not stay out of the way. There’s another factor Sergio didn’t account for, one of the hostages being asshole incarnate. That’s a title Palermo keeps for himself, but Arturito’s challenging him for that spot.

He remembers being so pissed at Arturo over one thing or another that he kneels beside him and puts on his saddest face. Palermo squeezes Arturo’s cheeks.

“I didn’t want to be part of this robbery, you know. I was forced to by-” He gestures at the back of Berlin’s head. “-by that son of a bitch.”

And sighs. “I’ve never felt so guilty in my life. I might burn in hell for doing this, but no reason you have to, you- a man with a child on the way.”

Then he whispers, “There’s a way out of here, a secret passage. Can you keep it to yourself, until you’re out of here- can you do that?”

Arturo regards him with something between fear and desperation. “Yes. Please, tell me.”

Palermo gulps. He looks left, then right. And making sure the stage is set, he says, “Okay, I will. Listen closely, the passage is in-”

Arturo scooches towards him. Palermo gets by his ear and says:

“La concha de tu madre.”

Even without the beautiful look on Arturito’s face, Palermo would still have laughed until his lungs ached. 

(Arturo Román will write in his memoir that Palermo was a ruthless emotional terrorist.)

Then because Arturo can’t learn a lesson, he gets himself shot on the rooftop. Because Denver and Moscow decided to go for a walk with a host of hostages. It’s quite amazing, Palermo thinks, how idiocy spreads from brain to brain like an std. 

And because Arturo gets himself shot, they have to let a group of surgeons in. Palermo gives credit where credit is due. Sergio somehow knows they sent a mole in and he orders the team to tap the cop’s glasses. _Whose mole is it now?_ Palermo wonders after the fact, finding it harder and harder to resist a sneer.

Palermo doesn’t remember if it’s before or after the surgery that Arturo gives the performance of his life, a highlight of the heist experience. He gets on the phone with his wife and after an almost convincing heartfelt speech, calls her _Mónica._

“You, my friend,” he tells Arturo, “are a true example of a man.”

Then Palermo claps, again ordering everyone around to applaud along. It’s at this point that Berlin leans on the edge of Arturo’s makeshift gurney and finally removes his mask. 

“How are you feeling?” Berlin asks, smiling down.

Arturo watches him through drugged eyes before a spark of recognition flashes.

“Do you have a sister?” he mumbles.

Berlin shakes his head, running a thumb down Arturo’s jaw (which does not ignite a moment of possessive disgust in Palermo). “Nope. I had a lot of fun at the Mint last time, Mr. Director- what was it you said, I could come to you if I needed anything at all?”

Arturo shudders, no doubt feeling a migraine come in. “It was you.” Then, “Fuck, oh- fuck, fuck-” And then he looks at Palermo again- _“And you.”_

Berlin leaves the gurney then, a nasty chuckle in his throat. “I wonder who you love more, your wife or Mónica. Or is it me?”

Palermo snickers along, and for a moment, he and Berlin work perfectly together. Then for lack of better word, shit goes down again. For starters, the police do their best to target the weakest link. Who else could it be but Rio? Unfortunately for them, Sergio’s already predicted this move. 

Whatever Sergio’s doing outside, it’s working, like he’s getting some visceral pleasure from humiliating the authorities, going above and beyond in his efforts to make them look as horrible as can be. Maybe that’s the real revenge, Palermo thinks, for the so-called law that killed his father. Sergio doesn’t take his vengeance in one swoop- he goes at it slowly, bit by bit like a sadistic hawk picking prey apart. 

But they’re all in for a shock when Nairobi’s photo flashes on the news. Agatá Jiménez. One strand of dark hair in the driver’s seat of their getaway car. Drug dealer. Complicit in a trafficking ring. An abusive mother. A psychotic lover. The list of offenses goes on, a real bucket of unwanted surprises.

Nairobi watches, silent, her brow furrowed.

“You sold babies on the black market?” Palermo says behind her, as he follows the report, “I always thought you’d cry if you had to sell puppies.”

“I never did any of this,” she replies, hollow, as if her mind’s struggling to make sense of it. “I never even went in that car…”

Helsinki puts a hand on her shoulder. That’s enough to say he doesn’t believe a word of the report. Palermo suspects at least ninety percent of it is false anyway. And he thinks he knows how it came about. It makes him seethe. Nairobi’s one of the few who hasn’t given him any problems.

So he trudges to the landline and hopes Sergio answers. But Berlin’s already standing in the “conference” room by the time Palermo arrives, the phone on his ear.

“How could you?” he hears Berlin say, a twinge of boyish hurt on his tongue, “she never touched the fucking car.”

He pauses to let Sergio speak, and clenching the phone, says, “They say she trafficked children, that she tried to sell her own son. What if he sees her on the news? She’d hate that. You know she’d hate that. Sergio, you could have used me-”

Palermo swipes the phone from him then, the cord twisting as he brings it to his own mouth. “What the fuck, profe!? I don’t think framing your own teammates was part of the plan.”

“Palermo, listen-” Sergio says through static.

“No, you listen! And why didn’t you expose me, bitch!? Wasn’t I the one who broke the rules?”

“You’re not Spanish. They’d turn it into a battle against Argentines instead.”

“You motherfucker-”

And then he’s speaking to thin air. Beside him, Nairobi’s taken the phone and hung up. She shakes her head, and level, tells them both, “I trust the professor. He wouldn’t do this if he didn't have to. If he’s going to smear my name, he’s going to clear my name. Let’s go on with the plan.”

“And why is that?” Palermo demands, angry that she isn’t angry.

She taps her chest. “A gut feeling.”

Berlin looks at her with wet eyes, like he’s so fucking moved that she trusts his asshole brother so much. Palermo also looks at her with wet eyes, mostly because he hasn’t slept in ten years (or three, four days- he can’t remember). But they do as Nairobi says and the plan goes on with only the occasional up and down. 

The next shock comes when Palermo goes looking for Denver and Moscow, Berlin at his heels. As it turns out, Mónica Gaztambide is alive. Not exactly well since Denver shot her in the thigh, but alive and cognizant. Denver stands in front of her, stupidly brave despite the fear on his face, but Palermo kisses him on the cheeks instead. He does the same for Moscow, and even Mónica.

“Resurrection Sunday,” Berlin remarks with a grin.

Denver glares at him. It’s the first time Palermo’s ever seen Denver glare at him.

But Palermo has no desire to get into whatever triangular drama is about to ensue (or maybe square, with Arturito involved). He just feels a wave of relief. Maybe idiocy has its perks after all. No hostages are dead. He doesn’t have the weight of an innocent woman’s death on his hands. 

“Let her join the others,” he tells Denver, “I think you’ve all learned your lesson.”

Because he’d been drunk before, drunk on adrenaline and power and the primal fear of death. Now his head’s clear, the fog lifting before his eyes, and Martín can breathe again. Yes, Martín can be Palermo now, and he’s never been happier over a stranger’s life (because the truth is, he had felt guilty about it, he’d felt guilty about it since he first thought of the order).

Then Inspector Murillo enters the Mint. Palermo’s spoken to her over a line a few times, but in person, she’s more intimidating than he expects. She checks the livelihood of their hostages, does a full body count while she waits for Alison Parker. That’s what the authorities send her in to do, but Palermo knows what she’s really here for: sizing up the professor’s ragtag group.

Each robber does their best to make the Inspector squirm, but Raquel Murillo has a perfect poker face. In some bizarre way, she reminds Palermo of Sergio. She has that same quiet fire in her voice, the same terrifying competence in her every move. 

She tests Rio’s defenses first, but the kid has none of it (he’s shaken up though, Palermo can tell, at the very mention of his parents). She doesn’t give Tokyo the time of day. She doesn’t bother talking to Helsinki or Oslo, or even Moscow. She goes directly for the kill.

“I have a daughter,” she tells Nairobi, “Agatá, we can help you if you cooperate. Your son- Axel- we can arrange for you to meet him, legally. Isn’t that what this is all about? So you’ll have the money to see him whenever you want?”

It’s nothing short of kidnapping, but Raquel’s good at sugarcoating. As good as Sergio. Palermo knows now, knows why Sergio’s resorting to more and more underhanded moves outside. Because of this woman, another unprecedented factor in his perfect plan. It’d be poetic if Palermo’s own life wasn’t at stake.

But Nairobi’s no fool either.

“I’m not going to trust the same people that lied about me all over the news,” Nairobi says dryly, “sorry. I have to fucking decline.”

Raquel takes the rejection rather gracefully. And then she moves onto investigating the rest of them. Palermo remembers getting much too close to her and trying out some sexual innuendo, every lowbrow tactic he can think of to intimidate. But all Raquel does is blink and insinuate that Martín doesn’t get laid by honest men often. (He hates that it’s true.)

It’s when she asks about the professor that Berlin puts himself in her line of sight.

“What if he’s not here?” he drawls, “why do you need him, Inspectora?”

“Because he’s the brains behind the operation,” she says. “I highly doubt it’s Señor Palermo over there.”

Palermo coughs. On the contrary, he’s contributed a shit ton to the plan. 

“Makes sense.” Then Berlin circles her chair. “You know what, Inspectora, I have a good friend. His father used to strip him naked and tie him to the banister, whipped him until he couldn’t cry. And left him there. All night, every night.”

Raquel doesn’t say a word, just eyes him like he’s about to spew another page of bullshit like Palermo or Tokyo before. 

“So I have to ask,” Berlin says, _“where were you? Where were the police back then?”_

Raquel’s poker face is back in an instant, but Palermo catches the flinch before, the barest of unpleasant shock in her gaze. 

And Berlin chuckles. “But now that some pieces of paper are in danger, now that a politician's kid is in trouble, every officer in Spain is on the case!”

“Your friend’s not here, is he?” Raquel says, “tell me the point of your story.”

“The professor saved him. Not you, not the fucking police. Not the liars on the news. So maybe you’re not the heroes here.”

“As opposed to what, your group?”

“The professor’s group.” And finished, Berlin returns to Palermo’s side. Raquel offers a cold smile and nothing more.

Palermo doesn’t care if that little speech affects the Inspector or not. He squeezes Berlin’s shoulder, the tiniest bit proud that he had the balls to say all that crap. Something tells Martín it wasn’t _all_ crap, but it’s not his place to dwell on it, not yet.

After Raquel’s visit, Palermo’s sure things will calm down. Having a common enemy is the best remedy for rifting camaraderie. But once again, he’s wrong.

Palermo retreats to his faux office afterwards, occasionally checking in on Nairobi and her prints, or stopping by to torment his favorite victim, Arturito. Helsinki’s real fucking nice to Arturo though, which just makes Palermo look meaner so it’s just as well. Even Tokyo and Rio aren’t giving him any more trouble. It lures Palermo into a false sense of security, and he finally gets the chance to nap in their lounge.

That’s when Berlin comes in, rummaging for a box of bandaids. It’s so loud that Palermo wakes up.

“Why do you need those?” he demands, in a foul(er) mood.

“I got poked with some scissors, but I don’t want the wound to scar.”

If Palermo wasn’t awake before, he is now. He watches Berlin unzip the jumpsuit and roll his shirt down. There’s a puncture on his shoulder blade, not terribly deep but bleeding all the same.

“What the fuck,” Palermo says, “how’d that happen?”

“The scissors were blunt. I’m not worried.”

Palermo takes the box from him and rips it open with his teeth. When he hands it back to Berlin, he states, “You didn’t answer me.”

But Berlin just shrugs and slaps up the wound. Then he’s gone again. Palermo’s never been a fan of telenovelas, unless he needs something to help him fall asleep. Now he wishes he’d paid more attention to the damn shows. Then maybe he’d know how to deal with all the bullshit around him.

Because when he checks on the hostages again, he finds Arturo missing, no doubt gone to find Mónica. And when he goes to check on her, he finds Denver beating the ever loving shit out of Arturito despite Mónica’s screams for him to stop. It’s kind of funny, but Denver looks like he wants to kill a man. So Palermo pulls him off, taking a few bruises in the process, and orders Helsinki to patch Arturo up.

Then Palermo learns two things. One, the scissors were meant for Denver. Arturo tried to kill Denver with a blunt pair. Two, Berlin saw it coming and put himself in the way. And that threw Denver over the edge.

Palermo actually wants to kill Arturo himself after that. The only thing stopping him is the petty knowledge that he’d be making a martyr out of the fucker. He also wants to kill Denver. Saving Mónica is one thing. Whatever’s going on between them now is another. And most of all, he wants to kill Berlin.

 _What if the scissors weren’t blunt,_ he wants to say, _would you be happy, bitch, dying for fucking Denver!?_

He’s on his way to hunt down Berlin when things go from bad to worse. Because there’s a death in the team. And compared with that, everything that happened before is nothing.

Oslo is their first casualty, felled in a coup by the hostages they’ve locked up. Palermo can’t forget the way his skull split open, the blood pooling out. And he certainly can’t forget his glassy gaze, a sign that he’d never move or talk again. There’s no saving Oslo. Palermo can’t say he ever got to know the man, but he respected him. He worked with him. And he trusted him. That’s enough reason to mourn as there ever was.

So when Helsinki puts his comrade out of his misery, Palermo stays by his side. It’s the least he can do. He helps Helsinki light a circle of candles and he keeps his mouth shut when Helsinki gives Oslo a final sendoff. Then still by the body, Palermo puts his hands on Helsinki’s shoulders and says, “You can cry. It’s okay.”

So Helsinki does. And Palermo spends- he doesn’t know how long- holding the bigger man in his arms. Eventually, he asks, “What was his name?”

Everyone deserves to go out with a name.

Helsinki tells him: Radko.

And Palermo nods, committing it to memory. He presses his head to Helsinki’s and tells him Oslo won’t die in vain. They’re going to get out of there- successful- and they’re all going to live twice as much for Oslo’s sake. 

“I’m your captain,” Palermo says, “and I’m going to make this plan worth it.”

Then he shakes Helsinki’s hand, a firm promise in his grip. 

But everyone else’s morale plummets after Oslo’s death. And by everyone, Palermo means Tokyo. She gets antsy, and her doubt spreads to the whole team. Who’s next to die? How many hostages would kill them given the chance? Who still cares about a bunch of banknotes? Where’s the fucking professor? These are questions Palermo hopes everyone will keep to themselves, but they break open like a bleeding wound.

It doesn’t help that Sergio’s nowhere to be found. He can’t reach him through the line, no matter how many times he promises Tokyo that he will. There are no calls from Sergio, no further direction, no condolences. He disappears like a ghost (just like he appeared) and even Palermo begins to doubt Sergio’s own faith in the heist.

But there’s one person whose faith never wavers. Berlin. 

“The professor’s not going to abandon us,” he says, with so much conviction that Palermo almost envies him.

“And how do you know?” Rio retorts.

“Don’t bother asking,” Tokyo cuts in, “we all know Berlin is the professor’s little cockslut.”

And then Berlin’s pouncing at her, breaking a nerve for the first time in days. 

“How dare you!?” he snarls, “How dare you!? You bitch!”

He manages to sock Rio in the eye when he gets in the way and it’s through Helsinki and Denver’s combined efforts that Berlin’s assault ends. He smacks them all away and still trembling, leaves to cool down. 

There are still no calls from Sergio.

An hour later, Palermo finds Berlin washing hands in the men’s room, a sack of toiletries on the sink. Palermo grabs him and turns him around, his own furious face in the mirror behind.

“Calm now?” he asks.

“What does it look like,” Berlin says coldly.

And it’s as good a time as ever for Palermo to lay all his cards on the table. Before something fells one of them next. 

“I know how you got stabbed,” Palermo hisses, “what were you thinking?”

Berlin raises an eyebrow. Then he scoffs. “Why do you care? You didn’t want me here in the first place, remember.”

“Doesn’t Denver hate you now? You sided with _me,_ remember, over killing Mónica.”

“He doesn’t blame me for that. I knew he wouldn’t go through with it. You told him to kill her, doesn’t mean he had to. It’s not like you ever checked afterwards.”

“What, so you fucking kissed and made up?”

“And what if we did?” Berlin smiles, something between a sneer and smirk.

He looks so fucking naughty that Palermo almost forgives him. But it’s not enough to eclipse the anger he feels. They’ve been here long enough. Fucking Sergio’s outside. So he says it. There’s too much at stake, too high a chance of another death, too much Palermo can’t control.

“I don’t want anyone else dying. I especially don’t like the thought of you dying,” Palermo tells him, pushing Berlin up against the sink. “Not for Denver or anyone else. Fuck, Andrés, I know you hate me for that night but listen- I don’t want you dying in here.”

Palermo’s not even looking at Berlin. He’s looking at his own reflection, at the tired, tired eyes and the defeated confession from his lips:

“I’m a rotten bastard. Always have been, always will be. But I love you. I’ve loved you since the metro in Berlin.”

He’s about to release Berlin when a pair of lips catch his own in a savage smash. Berlin’s hands are in his hair, fingers groping every which way. And then it’s Palermo against a wall, Berlin practically unhinging their jaws as his tongue pushes in and in. Palermo lets him. He gulps in the taste, the bit of blood that comes out when he bites on Berlin’s lip, and he feels the younger man crush him. All of him, the weight of a kiss and the weight of a breath.

Palermo gropes for the zipper of Berlin’s suit, rips it all the way down and peels the red away. It falls like a puddle at their feet. And when his own suit comes off, Palermo falls on Berlin, the tiles beneath their backs. He kisses everywhere, the smooth jaw, those petal lips, the bridge of that nose, the bobbing throat. 

“Your brother will kill me,” he gasps, Berlin’s hand climbing into his boxers.

“Do you mind?”

“No.”

And then he’s yanking off Berlin’s briefs. The younger man crawls away, and up to the sink. The toiletry’s zipper comes undone, a bottle of something rolling out. Berlin squeezes away until his hands are foamy with lotion. When he returns, it’s to lather Palermo’s cock with a finger and palm. And fuck, it feels good.

“By the time you’re forty, I’ll be in my sixties,” Palermo says, clinging to Berlin’s head until he finds tufts of hair to grab. “You won’t want me then.”

Berlin shapes his fingers around Palermo’s cock, the organ harder and harder as he works, as if molding clay. 

“I will,” Berlin tells him, “I’ll always want you, even when you’re all wrinkles and snow hair. We’re soulmates, Martín- didn’t you know that?”

Then he bends over the faucet, Palermo’s hands on his shoulders. Palermo can’t resist anymore. He thrusts in, pushing and pushing while Berlin moans with each shove, absolute velvet to Palermo’s ears. And groaning, Palermo forces his T-shirt up, until he can see the bandaid, now stained pink.

“This is going to scar,” Palermo tells him, still in the fervor, “every time I look at it, I’m going to think of you taking a hit for Denver. I’m going to hate it for the rest of my life.”

He collapses backwards. 

“Good,” Berlin says, husky.

Arms slam around him, and they hit the floor together. He hears the bottle move, more cream chugged into Berlin’s hands. He hears the lotion slap onto _something else._ And then he feels the tip of a slick cock against his ass- and ah, fuck, there it is. Berlin’s a burst of fire behind him, pure blood and heat. 

(At the same time, in the vaults below, Denver and Mónica Gaztambide fuck each other’s brains out too.)

They stay wrapped like that, long after they’ve both finished, sticking to skin like sweat and semen. Palermo feels Berlin’s head roam against his chest, listening for the heart behind his ribs. And every kiss from the younger man sets him on fire again, only cooled by the tiles of the sullied floor. That’s when the door opens.

They snap apart, rushing to cover up.

“No personal relationships, huh?” Tokyo says, a head peeping in. It’s cold, something threatening in her tone.

But before Palermo can retort, she’s left.

He and Berlin clean each other up as best as they can. And they leave, Palermo in a better mood before things crash again. He doesn’t remember the order of what happens next: Russian Roulette or the patriarchal corner of shame. The second one, he takes responsibility for. The first one, he blames entirely on Tokyo.

Tokyo insists the professor’s been caught because their house in Toledo appears on the news. It’d explain the missing calls and the dead communication. Regardless of whether or not Rio actually believes it, he’s on Tokyo’s side. Moscow has no intention of going back to jail and he certainly doesn’t want Denver to. Even Nairobi, who’s believed in the professor for so long, begins to doubt. Palermo’s been pretty clear about this being a dictatorship, but the others petition for a vote anyway.

It’s three to the professor- Palermo, Berlin, and Helsinki- and five to jumping ship. So they do a recount, and Palermo manages to swing Nairobi to his side with a mention of Plan Chernobyl, the professor’s failsafe in case things go completely wrong. A lot of things have gone wrong already, but not on that level yet.

So they all go back to work, Moscow in the tunnels and Palermo to the lounge. He’s doping himself up on sugarless coffee, deciding to never sleep again, when Helsinki comes calling him. Helsinki’s never been so frantic, so Palermo knows some major shit is on the way.

He follows him to one of the restrooms, where he finds Nairobi banging on the door outside.

“Tokyo, stop this!” Nairobi cries.

Fucking. Tokyo. Again.

Palermo cocks his gun and walks forward. “What the fuck’s going on here?”

“Palermo!” Denver yells from inside, “Tokyo’s playing Russian Roulette with Berlin-”

Nairobi stumbles when Palermo shoves past her. Denver never finishes that last word because Palermo’s already pushed the door open, sending Rio skidding from the other side. Palermo doesn’t curse or screech because he’s only got one thing on his mind- ripping Tokyo apart.

His gun’s trained on Tokyo’s head. But Tokyo has a pistol beneath Berlin’s jaw, her victim knotted to a chair with cords of makeshift rope. There’s blood slipping down his chin, a lip cut open, a sharp bruise spreading around his eye. And Palermo can feel his own veins pulse, feel the rage color his brain, his hands, the snarl in his throat.

“Let him go,” he hisses.

She clicks the gun. “He knows Plan Chernobyl, but the little slut won’t tell. So maybe you will, Palermo- it’s not so fun now, is it? When it’s _your_ man on the line?”

Palermo throws his head back and laughs. Cackles and coughs, like he’s fucking choking. “So make up your fucking mind. What’s this about, revenge for what I did to your boy toy or the motherfucking plan?”

Tokyo doesn’t answer. Instead, she whips the pistol across Berlin’s brow, and when blood breaks out, Palermo stops laughing. 

“Why not both?” Tokyo says, “tell us the plan.”

The truth is, Palermo’s tempted. As loathe as he is to admit it, he knows Tokyo’s ready to do worse, that she’ll fucking shoot Berlin through the head and not give a fuck. But he bites his tongue when Berlin chuckles next.

“Tokyo, oh Tokyo! Palermo’s not going to tell you,” he says with a wry grin, “you’re wasting our time.”

Tokyo kicks him in the shin. _Don’t tell her,_ is the message to Martín, _don’t fucking tell her._

Palermo gulps down his answer. “He’s right. We all know how this is going to end- I’m going to shove my gun up your fucking mouth, blow your head off, and feed it to lover boy over there!”

That scares Rio because then _he_ has a gun pointed behind Palermo’s head. In the kid’s defense, Palermo meant every fucking word he said. Then hell breaks loose- for Palermo at least- when Tokyo flashes him a dry smirk.

Palermo doesn’t even notice when Denver turns his gun on Tokyo, when Nairobi comes in with a firearm in each hand, one at Rio and one at Denver. Everyone can come in with a gun at everyone else, and he still wouldn’t notice. He only hears the snap.

Like a badly synced film. The sound comes first. Then the image.

It’s a crunch in reverse.

And Tokyo has her grip on Berlin’s right hand, his index finger breaking with her touch. His mouth parts slightly, but no cry follows, a spark of shock in his face. Palermo hears Denver say, “Shit, Tokyo- stop it already!” He hears Tokyo turn the argument on Nairobi, all sorts of back-and-forth stings between them. He hears and lets the words fade out.

Until he hears himself say, breathless, _“I’ll kill you.”_

Palermo fires, the bullet only grazing Tokyo in the shoulder when Rio tackles him from behind. Their group devolves into a mess of guns and screams until Helsinki steps in, opening fire to the air. And then somehow, Nairobi recollects her wits enough to order Rio and Tokyo out. Palermo screams the plan out for them all to hear.

“You fucking idiots!” he says, “we can’t do it without the professor. So guess what!? You’re stuck with me forever!”

Tokyo storms out, Rio stumbling after. And Palermo is still clutching his gun- anger churning in every nerve- while Denver and Helsinki untie Berlin. 

“Are you okay?” Denver asks, helping him off the fucking chair.

Berlin wipes the blood from his mouth with the back of a wrist. “Well, I’m not dead.”

Denver sports a relieved smile. Then it turns to alarm again when he grabs Berlin’s hand. “Oh fuck! Your finger, it looks real bad, man. Can you still work?”

Berlin eyes the digit, itself dangling awkwardly by his thumb, a bit of bone showing through skin. “Yeah. I’m ambidextrous.”

“Oh- um, I mean- that’s cool. All love is beautiful. Thanks for telling me.”

Denver’s still holding his hand when Palermo butts in, too pissed at Tokyo to laugh at whatever direction their conversation was going.

“Berlin, how is it really?” Palermo asks. 

The young man shrugs. “It’s nothing.”

 _It’s nothing_ , is the exact phrase that sets Palermo off, sends him spinning into such a spiral of rage that he’s already charging down the hall to gun Tokyo down. Until Berlin chases after him, stopping him with a tug of sleeve.

“Let me go!” Palermo grits his teeth. “I’m going to fucking kill her!”

“Wait- wait, Palermo. Don’t kill her-”

“Then what do you suggest I do? Wait for her to play roulette again?! Fuck off!”

Berlin lets go. “No. I was going to suggest something worse.” And Berlin does have a much worse idea for revenge. 

So later, Palermo has Helsinki grab Tokyo from the halls. Because Helsinki would follow Palermo to the ends of the Earth at this point. They strap Tokyo to a gurney, cursing and frothing, and with a cackle and wave, Palermo kicks her out to the wolves outside. He sings the whole time, a happy tune to celebrate the end of all his problems.

Well, not the end yet. Because Rio tries to go after her, and when that doesn’t work, he attacks Palermo. So he gets a tranquilizer to the neck and Palermo leaves Nairobi in charge of babysitting him. It’s a shame- Palermo would have liked the kid under different circumstances, would have appreciated his tech-savvy brain. _Too bad I’m so heterophobic,_ he muses.

Which brings Palermo to the second point- the one thing he can’t blame Tokyo for. Maybe he’s too doped up on coffee. Maybe it’s the fucking hostages trying to act up again, their refusal to bend, the police closing in from outside, Sergio’s fucking disappearance. It all comes to a point where Palermo hates everyone and everything and every tiny bit of stress in this mess. When Nairobi disagrees with him over some spat- it could be the life of a hostage or the taste of pizza, Palermo doesn’t even remember- he lashes out.

“I’m running a motherfucking patriarchy!” he hollers, followed by a spew of insults against her sex, most of which he’s making up on the spot.

He recalls spittle and sweat, and Berlin crying out, “Palermo!” before Nairobi swings a pipe at his skull. There’s an explosion of pain and Palermo falls to blissful black.

Then he wakes up, crown swaddled in gauze, and limbs tied to a wooden chair. Berlin’s beside him, looping strings around his wrist. He groans, and when the younger man asks how he’s feeling, Palermo tells him to fuck off.

“I can’t,” Berlin says, “Nairobi imposed a ‘no-fucking’ rule.”

“A what!?”

“No fucking, no yelling.” He sits on the floor, resting his head on Palermo’s thigh. “Not until we’re out of the ‘patriarchal corner of shame.’”

“What the hell is that?”

“The corner you’re sitting in. It’s a matriarchy now, so we’re at the bottom of the pyramid.”

“Fuck.” Then Palermo sighs, blinking the ache from his head. “Wait. Why are you in my corner of shame?”

“I… had a disagreement with Nairobi.”

“Over me?”

“Maybe.” Then Berlin smirks, looking at the splint on his bound finger. “I tied you up with just one hand. It was really kinky, so it was too bad you were asleep.”

And the ache is back. But Palermo welcomes it, as if some sense was knocked back into his dying brain. He feels some wits returning, a flood of calm leaving him feeling light.

“Shit, I really overdid it,” Palermo says, “I got power hungry, power mad, it does things to your brain. I looked like a fucking lunatic, didn’t I?”

“You did. But-” Berlin stares up at him, something sensuous in his gaze. “It made me _hard._ Fuck. Palermo, your power trip- since the first day we got here- was a work of art. I’ve never been so horny in my life.”

That’s more comforting than it has any right to be. So Palermo’s as twisted a son of a bitch as Berlin. Even so, he has more clarity now.

“You know,” he tells Berlin, “maybe whatever we have… it causes problems too. Think about it, your life’s just begun- and for me, in ten years, it’s all downhill. You shouldn’t be wasting yourself on me, or your brother.”

“Are you breaking up with me?”

Before Palermo can answer, Berlin’s pressing his lips to his mouth. 

“We’re not actually together yet,” he says matter-of-factly, bottom lip still brushing Palermo’s own, “so I can do whatever I want until we leave the Mint.”

“You little shit.”

But that’s the end of that. Nairobi leaves them in the patriarchal corner of shame for the better part of the day. Until a miracle happens- Sergio returns, like Lazarus from the dead. And he makes good on his promise to clear Nairobi’s name. He invites a reporter into the Mint for an interview with their team- unlike the lies, this one will be exclusive, true, and on live TV. 

Palermo can tell Berlin’s itching to throw himself in front of the camera, but there’s no reason to put him on screen, so he tells the narcissist to shut up. Helsinki unties Palermo and frees them from the shame corner for the interview, not that he and Berlin are going to talk. They’re just going to stand there in the background.

Nairobi’s actually an excellent actor, much better than Palermo assumed. Probably because at least sixty percent of it was real. She mourns Oslo before the camera and speaks with a gentle defeat on her tongue, like she just wants to live- is it so wrong to live? She lets some tears roll when she talks about the lies fed by Murillo’s team.

“I know I’m an easy target,” she says, “we all are. But I’m exposed now so I’ll just say it- I know I don’t come from a good background, I don’t have a high class job, I was abandoned by my husband-”

She turns it all back on the police, at how shameless they were to slander her in public. Would they have done so if she was a man? Or if she was a woman who looked like Alison Parker? Sharp questions that will no doubt hit the Inspector’s side like punches to the gut.

“Axel, if you’re watching- I never hurt you. I would never do anything to hurt you. You’re the light of my life, the only reason I wake up each day. I love you.”

That’s the last line of her interview. Then Nairobi asks the camera to cut and she walks off to cry. When the reporter leaves, Palermo has the remnants of their group surround Nairobi with a little round of applause. She laughs it off, but sniffles into Helsinki’s shirt anyway.

Things actually look up after that, like the tides of fortune have finally gone their way. They go back to printing money and there’s no more trouble from the leftover hostages, mostly obedient office workers and teenagers. Even Arturito finally learns to shut up. (Even when the professor panics over their mole, Palermo just hands the phone to Berlin and hears him say, “You know hospitals better than anyone else,” followed by a cheesy, “I believe in you, Sergio.”)

Then Tokyo comes back, quite literally riding in like the star of an action movie. That probably makes Palermo and everyone else her set pieces. But set pieces don’t bleed. People do. Moscow’s one of the first to cover her from the assault outside, and he’s also the second member of their team to fall.

There’s a chance to save Moscow, unlike Oslo. But he doesn’t take it. He doesn’t want it. He’d rather die than he go back to jail. So long as Denver makes it out, it’s worth it to him. Palermo doesn’t expect it, but he finds himself shedding tears for Moscow anyway. Maybe because Moscow wasn’t like the rest of them-- he never wanted a life of crime, and all things he considered, he was a good man, a real genuine good man.

He puts aside his differences with Tokyo so the old man can leave in peace. It’s no use blaming her for his death, Palermo knows- it won’t bring him back. 

But Denver takes it hard. He’s not stupid enough to think his father can survive, but he is stubborn enough to think he can save Moscow. So he tries. He hacks at the professor’s tunnel with everything his body’s got, and Palermo lets him. He lets Berlin join him too. 

And when he’s sure Moscow doesn’t have long, Palermo summons them back. Moscow’s already mistaking Tokyo for his wife, and Palermo doesn’t want that to be the man’s last memory. When he gets to the tunnel, he finds Denver kneeling on the ground, shirtless and covered in dirt. Berlin’s stooping beside him, bare skin slick with sweat, his good hand on Denver’s face. Rio’s still hacking away behind them both (and to Martín’s surprise, so is Mónica).

“You don’t get it,” Denver says with a crack, “I said I hated him. I said I never wanted to see him again.”

“He knows you love him,” is the other man’s firm reply, “he knows you love him more than anyone else on Earth.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he wants to be your father.” Berlin purses his lips. “And not everyone’s cut out to be a father. But Moscow is. Trust me. You’re many… things, but you’re not a bad son. Moscow knows that.”

Denver gulps. Then he wipes his eyes. “Okay. Wait- shit, Berlin, I thought you hated dirt.”

“I do. I detest all forms of manual labor.”

Berlin pulls him closer and touches his forehead to Denver’s own. With a twitch of a smile, he says, “We’ll get through this sooner than you think. Do you trust me?”

“I- yeah, yeah, I do. I trust you.”

And that’s _enough_ comfort needed. Palermo claps his hands and says, “Put on your clothes, boys! Moscow’s waiting.”

His voice jolts all four of them. Palermo ushers them out of the tunnel and back to the lobby in various states of dress. But he gets Denver there in time to speak to Moscow. If nothing else, at least the young man manages to say, “I’m sorry” and “I love you” before Moscow takes his final breath.

They hold a small service for Moscow. It’s a far cry from a real funeral, but at least it allows Denver to give his father a final sendoff. And it allows the rest of them to bow their heads, final respects for a comrade who would have laid down his life for every single one. 

And eventually, this dream- nightmare- trip, whatever it is comes to an end. 

Sergio and his team of Serbians break the barrier from the other side, and the good professor stumbles out of the tunnel covered in bits of debris and dust, the sweat on his shirt a sign that he’s been given a good workout. When he learns about Moscow, he hugs Denver first. Then Rio and Tokyo, and Nairobi when she comes.

But it’s Berlin who dashes straight into the professor’s arms, an uncontrollable grin on his face when Sergio hugs him back. If the rest of them were unsure about favoritism before, they’re sure now. Regardless, Palermo joins in, squeezing himself between Berlin and Sergio in a relieved embrace.

When Sergio goes back in, he gives them a deadline. Now or never, they have to move. The cops aren’t going to wait anymore. And Palermo knows they’re coming for the kill, so he stops Nairobi’s prints and starts forcing all hands on deck. They move bundles and bundles of Euros down the tunnel, so heavy they make hands tremble. But it’s real money in that plastic, crisp and clean and almost worth all the shit they’d gone through.

Then the bullets start flying again, the law finally closing in like wolves. Sergio’s taunted and battered them for far too long. Now the criminals are barely limping out. They’re going to take their revenge and when Palermo’s team is nothing but a pile of blood and flesh, they’ll say they were in the right. It’s a bleak outcome, but the only outcome he can think of.

And time runs out.

He’s already sent Denver and Rio down the tunnel, Tokyo some minutes after. Nairobi’s next, and Helsinki’s supposed to go last so he can blow the tunnel behind. But there isn’t time for that now. Either they all go in and blow the tunnel in some suicidal escape or-

“Palermo,” Berlin says to him, the sound of footsteps not far away, “when you get to the other side, tell Sergio I love him.”

He gives Palermo a smile, eyes glistening, probably meaning it to be his final image, the final picture Martín has of him.

“Palermo, hurry up,” he hears Sergio say from the earpiece.

“Palermo, hurry the fuck up!” he hears Tokyo say too.

Berlin moves, too fast for Nairobi to stop him. Ready to let the wolves eat him to the bone. But Palermo grabs his arm, twisting his fingers into Berlin’s sleeve.

“The fuck!?” Palermo cries, “do you have some sick martyr complex!?”

He yanks the gun from Berlin’s grip and pushes him towards Helsinki, a combination of fatigue and pain preventing Andrés from fighting back. 

“Take him and go!” Palermo says, “now. All of you go!”

“Not without you!” That’s Nairobi, also fighting Helsinki’s arms, Berlin clambering past his back to shout “No!” again and again. Sergio’s shouting the same thing. 

“I hate you, Palermo!” Tokyo says from the other side, “I fucking hate you!”

“I hate you too,” Palermo mutters. 

He shuts his eyes, fingers twitching on the gun. He’ll get one shot before they shoot him down. Better make it count. But Palermo never gets to come to terms with his own death because someone else appears behind the commotion, a hostage who’s managed to crawl out of the depths.

 _“Go with them,”_ she says.

Julia.

She pulls her mask up and flashes him a thumbs-up. “I was never part of the heist, remember?”

Nairobi’s jaw drops. Palermo’s sure his does too. Sergio hadn’t wanted to let Julia in, had thought of her as just another mouth to feed. Now Palermo remembers- Moscow had fought for her inclusion, as some failsafe plant. And she’d played the part of hostage so well he had, in all honesty, forgotten she was even there. Never a peep. Never a word out of line. Just another faceless victim in the crowd.

“They’re not going to shoot a hostage.” And Palermo can almost hear her grin.

“La concha de tu madre,” he says, legs suddenly numb.

Helsinki grabs Palermo by the collar, and he feels himself pulled back, into the dark while Julia heads out with hands on her head, sobbing for someone to hold their fire.

Nairobi tugs Helsinki along, a hand clutching the crook of Berlin’s arm. Palermo’s feet drag behind them, Helsinki wasting no time in pulling him along. And when they tumble into the dim light of Sergio’s hideout, the professor says, “Blow it up.”

The tunnel collapses behind and Berlin falls at Sergio’s feet, Palermo following suit, both cushioning Nairobi’s weight. It’s a clumsy exit, but an exit nonetheless and when it finally dawns on Palermo that they’ve made it out, he says, mouth kissing ground, “Fuck me.”

“Okay,” he hears Berlin whisper beside him. Palermo has never hated or loved anyone more in his life.

Sergio collects Berlin into another hug, and again, Palermo flies himself into the mix. Mostly because he’s going to murder them in the next ten seconds. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU for reading all that and I hope it was a fun "finale." Comments & kudos are always appreciated!
> 
> Next time, a quick epilogue to tie it over. And then it will actually BE over.
> 
> On a side note, I was originally going to have Sergio "expose" Berlin or Palermo, but neither felt like good choices in the situation, so it felt more logical to use Nairobi (also because she's smart enough to not Lose her mind the way Berlin or Palermo would lol).


	5. Bonus Track: Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you all for sticking with this cracky idea from start to finish!! And for putting up with the chapters that just get longer and longer (this one was supposed to be short too but lol, that didn't happen rip). 
> 
> Here it is, the actual final chapter and this story is Complete at last(!)

It’s a rocky ride to Palawan. But before that, a few important things happen. There isn’t much time for complaints and reunions after they escape the Mint. If time ceased inside the Mint, every frozen minute and second comes flooding after the tunnel blows. It’s probably an hour sharp by the time Sergio gets everyone on their separate routes, but it feels like ten seconds tops to Martín. There’s a medic that pats them all down, patching cuts and cleaning blood like he’s putting together parts of a conveyor belt. It works though.

From most to least battered, it’s Rio, Palermo, Berlin, Denver, Tokyo, Helsinki, and Nairobi- what’s left of their banda in the end.

In pairs, they undress and dress, no time or room for shame with the wolves on their tail. Their new companions box up the jumpsuits and the grey tops, Dali’s face disappearing six times (hopefully never to be seen again). Even Tokyo and Rio don’t have time to fuck each other’s faces before the professor shoos them all out.

Martín’s so busy pasting on a fake mustache that he _just_ notices Mónica in the mix when Denver lets loose a cannonball laugh. So she really did throw everything away, huh? But Martín supposes any choice of hers is a step up from Arturo. 

Nairobi’s the first to leave, unrecognizable from her image on broadcast. Then Denver and Mónica, arm in arm, a baby stroller between them, both dolled up. Sergio’s the last to go, Helsinki at the helm of his truck while the remaining Serbians get rid of the mess behind. Which means Martín has to step out before the truck can go.

He squints at the sun, a blinding ball of light compared to the neon prison he’d been stuck in for the past week. But he just scrunches his nose- tickled by the false hairs on his upper lip- and adjusts the baseball cap on his head, walking along pavement like he’s another nobody. A polaroid hangs around his neck, and if the offensive fanny pack is anything to go by, he’s supposed to be some oblivious tourist. 

“Was this your idea?” he asks the asshole behind him.

Andrés grins, slipping his good hand onto Martín’s arm, a sun hat crooked over his auburn wig, faux hair trailing to the waist. Breeze ruffles his skirt when a car zooms by, offering Martín a glimpse of shaved ankles. When Berlin had the time to “complete” his disguise is beyond Martín- it took Palermo long enough to glue on that stache.

“Sergio organized the costumes,” Andrés says, something mischievous in his eyes, a good round of powder masking the bruises on his face, “I only helped.”

Martín rolls his eyes and walks on, Andrés hanging off his arm. “Go stand over there.”

Without asking why, Andrés obeys, as if he already knows what Martín wants to do. And leaning by a street lamp, he smiles for the camera. Martín presses the shutter and laughs, shouting obnoxious orders for his darling wife to look this way and that way so they’ll have plenty of photos to show the cousins and friends back home, and all the kids they’d surely have. It’s not every day that Martín pretends to be a straight fucker with zero fashion sense anyway- might as well have fun with it, no?

So they do. 

They hold hands and snap bad photos (and occasionally pinch each other’s asses), all but dancing their way to Sergio’s port. They’re the last to hop on board, and like everyone else, waste no time shedding the costumes and jumping back into the grey T-shirts.

Sergio makes it clear that this really _is_ the final time they’ll all see each other (well, with the exception of Martín and Andrés but the others don’t know that). The group leaves Spain together, but they’ll part ways at each stop so if anyone has second thoughts about where they want to get off at, they better think it through. And once they get into international waters, Martín proposes a toast to the members- comrades? No, friends- they lost. He shares a bottle with Helsinki and there’s a long round of “To Oslo” and “To Moscow” from every mouth. Even Mónica drinks, though in Martín’s opinion, she’s the only one with any right to refuse.

Martín doesn’t keep track of how many days they spend on board (before their teammates start leaving, two by two). He just recounts the sound of rocky waves and windy rain, his body ebbing and flowing with his cot each night. There’s also lots of singing, most of it off-key, from the banda. But when he says it’s off-key, Tokyo says Palermo’s singing isn’t any better and he accuses her of slander.

Most of the time, Denver’s with Mónica, pressing his ear to her belly (probably forgetting that the child is Arturo’s) or stealing kisses from her lips. But Martín sees him with Andrés sometimes, a casual arm around Berlin’s shoulder while he chats about something dumb. Nairobi and Helsinki grow inseparable on the boat, and Sergio, well, Sergio just looks off to the sea and thinks. Once, his glasses almost fell into the water, and if not for Tokyo’s hand, they probably would have.

For all her doubts during the heist, Martín can’t mistake the look of adoration in Tokyo’s eyes whenever she talks to Sergio. It’s a little similar to Andrés,’ but he knows Andrés would kick Martín in the crotch if he tries to compare the two. 

Martín doesn’t know if he imagines it or not, but some grudging respect develops between himself and Tokyo on board, like they can’t believe the other survived all their attempts to fuck each other up. Rio keeps his distance more, but he doesn’t say no when Martín invites him to play a round of cards with Helsinki and Nairobi.

Things are more awkward around Mónica. But when he bumps into her on the railing one night (on his way back from pissing), Martín says rather shamelessly, “I’m glad we didn’t kill you.” 

She looks at him with a gaze that says, _This might as well happen._ But she tells him with a grin, “I’m glad you didn’t either.”

Not many people can look at the man who ordered their death and grin. And because Martín thinks it’s gutsy and because he owes her just as much, he says, “Want a drink?”

A pause first. Then, “Sure.”

He steals some leftover bottles of beer for a nightcap. And while they sit on deck, the waves rushing below, Mónica leans against her knee and says, “I didn’t really have much going on back- back there. I don’t know, it’s like I spent so long trying to be who I thought I should be that I lost myself. Maybe the heist was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

She touches her belly. “Opened my eyes to a lot of things, things that I already knew but didn’t want to think about.”

Martín shrugs, a habit he picked up from Andrés. “Same here.” He holds up his bottle for hers to touch. Mónica presses her drink to his, and Martín thinks it’s not so awkward after all.

Then things get awkward with Sergio. Martín’s sure everyone in the banda already knows about him and Berlin, and Sergio’s always had the uncanny ability to read people before they read themselves. It makes sense for him to know about their relationship. He knows Martín loves Andrés, but maybe not the way he thinks. And he must know how Andrés feels about Martín. Which begs the question of why the professor’s said nothing.

Motherfucker. Sergio wants them to tell him themselves. 

Martín wants to wait until they get to Palawan, but maybe it’s better to tell him on board, while everyone’s still around so Sergio will have less justification to push Palermo overboard. Evidently, Andrés thinks the same thing because the brothers are sitting on some crates when Andrés waves for Martín to join in.

As soon as Martín sits down, Andrés looks at Sergio and says, as casually as an idiot, “Martín and I are fucking.”

Martín glares at him. Really? Couldn’t he have opened with, Martín and I are intimate? Martín and I are closer than before?

Sergio pushes his glasses upwards. And without a change in expression, or voice for that matter, looks to Martín and asks, “Is this true?”

He also sounds stupidly casual and Martín thinks it’s the creepiest thing ever.

“What if it is?” Martín says, hoping he can play the moment off.

“I’m not asking for permission, Sergio,” Andrés states, clearly not in the same mindset, “I love Martín. He’s my soulmate. I would die for him and he would die for me.”

Sergio takes a breath, like he’s thinking. “Are you ninety-nine percent or one hundred percent certain?” 

_Who talks like this!?_ Martín wants to shout at them both, _Who the fuck has conversations like this!?_

“One hundred and one,” Andrés answers.

Sergio nods. He says nothing for a long moment, eyes drifting from Andrés to Martín in silence. Then he adjusts his glasses again and says, “We’ll talk about this later.”

Then he leaves them be, and Martín doesn’t know why but he shudders, like he’s sure Sergio’s going to give them the lecture of a lifetime (or maybe off to plot assassination). Not that Andrés minds. He quite cheerfully wraps his arms around Martín’s neck and kisses the back of his ears- and well, Martín can listen to a thousand more lectures if this is his reward.

* * *

On the night before Denver and Mónica leave, the captain officiates their wedding. There’s an empty seat where Moscow should be. But the rest of them cheer anyway when it’s done, when Denver takes his wife into his arms and swings them both with the breeze. Even Sergio gets on his feet when they dance, mostly because Tokyo and Rio drag him up by each arm. When Mónica shares a dance with Helsinki- quite cheerful for a woman that so recently threw everything away- Denver cups his hands around Berlin’s face.

“I think I’m ambidextrous too!” Denver tells him with a grin.

“You mean bisexual?” Berlin says, allowing the groom to spin him in a bad mimicry of tango.

“I mean, that’s cool too. Just, I think I’m what you are. If I wasn’t so in love with Mónica, I’d totally marry you in that vineyard you wanted.”

_“Why would I marry you!?”_

Martín laughs, arm in arm with the captain, when a loud pop tells him Denver’s just kissed Andrés on the lips. He has a half a mind to go over, but decides to let it slide- Denver will be gone by dawn anyway. But when Palermo slides his hips just a little too close to Helsinki’s, he detects Berlin’s look of envy a good few heads away. And Martín only smirks.

In the morning, hours before sunrise, Denver gives everyone a final embrace. Even Palermo, and Martín cups the back of his head. 

“Take care of your wife, don’t make her regret this, you hear?” he says.

“Take care of Berlin,” Denver says right back, still with that silly grin.

And when Denver and Mónica and that fucking laugh disappear onto the dock (with a final, “Bye, profe!”), Martín realizes he’ll miss them. Not that he’s going to admit it any time soon.

Two days later, Tokyo and Rio depart in the night on a blowup raft. Nairobi might have shed a few tears during the goodbyes but when Palermo mentions it, she knocks him in the arm. Sergio tells the couple to behave themselves, and Martín shares his first and final handshake with Tokyo.

“Never met anyone I hated as much as you,” he scoffs.

Tokyo flashes a smirk, between a smug smile and farewell grin. “Go fuck yourself, Palermo.”

“That’s my job,” Berlin whispers, but he looks away when the professor shoots him a glare.

And when it comes for Helsinki and Nairobi to step off, Martín finds himself crushed in the Serbian’s embrace. When Helsinki lets go, Nairobi pinches Martín’s cheek and says, “Aww, Palermo, I didn’t know you cared so much- look, Helsinki, he’s crying.”

“I’m not crying,” Martín bites back, a bit of wind in his eyes. 

“Palermo!” Helsinki says tearfully, running a hand through Martín’s hair. “We’ll miss you too.”

Fuck. Maybe a few tears. And then Martín’s waving goodbye with Berlin and Sergio on either side, Helsinki and Nairobi shrinking from view. 

* * *

Palawan’s a change of scenery from the damp ship, warm sands and lush green, a piece of Shangri La basked in sunlight. And it’s been forever since Martín’s felt warm, felt the glow on his skin, pools of turquoise sea around his toes. Sergio already has a place furnished by the time they arrive, a sprawling house open to the air. It’s funny. He’s never seen Sergio as the type who’d want a home like that. Then again, maybe this is the goal, the freedom Sergio’s always wanted.

But the professor doesn’t act any freer than he did before. He’s just as uptight, if not more so, always looking like there’s something else on his mind, another part of the plan yet to happen. 

But most of the time, Martín doesn’t care. He wasn’t supposed to be here, but now he is. He’d wanted to take his share of the cut and sprint, but there’d been a last minute change on the boat over. Andrés told Sergio he would bring Martín to Palawan, and Sergio had only asked if Martín was willing.

“Yeah, I can stick around,” had been the answer.

Martín wanders the beach often, sometimes with a cocktail in hand, sleeves rolled up and shirt unbuttoned to the chest. Andrés is especially fond of this look, and the truth is, Martín is especially fond of the little shit’s praise.

Because Andrés is with him, sometimes running ahead of Martín and calling for him to catch up, or just a step behind so he can grab Martín’s hand. These days, Andrés unbuttons his shirt all the way down so he can toss his clothes aside and leap into the water ahead. Sometimes Martín joins him for a swim. Sometimes he just sits back and waits for Andrés to climb back on shore, body glistening as he plants a kiss on Martín’s lips. 

“You think you’re so hot, don’t you?” Martín says.

“I do,” is always the reply.

Those first weeks are perfect bliss. Martín’s never been so at peace. Sergio once promised him the top of the world and he’d been content with being just above the bottom. But now Martín thinks he is on top of the world. He thinks it every time Andrés beams his way, every time their fingers touch, every time he tastes the younger man’s mouth and feels the words, _“I’m yours. Yours. Yours.”_

Of course, it’s more awkward when Sergio is around. Usually Sergio doesn’t say a word when Andrés accompanies Martín on his walks by the shore, but Martín feels like the man’s judging them regardless. Maybe Andrés feels it too, because he’s more restrained around his brother, like he also knows there’s something brewing in Sergio’s mind.

And when Sergio finally has the talk with Martín, Andrés is out doing who knows what in town. 

“So what do you have to say?” Martín asks him, a bowl of coconut milk in his palm, “you don’t scare me, Sergio.”

“Just sit down and listen, Martín.” Sergio removes his spectacles, wiping them against his shirt. “I’ve thought it over for a long time.”

“No, you don’t say!”

“Martín, please.”

And Martín gestures for him to talk on.

“Andrés loves you,” Sergio says, “and you should know by now that he’s… not like most people. Emotions, empathy, it’s never been easy for him to understand. I can’t guarantee that he won’t hurt you in the end, that he won’t do something to make you reconsider staying with him.”

The glasses slide back on. And Sergio’s looking him dead in the eye.

“So if you think there’s a chance of him disappointing you, now’s your chance to leave him.”

Martín has thought it over. Many times. So now he only shrugs. “And if I don’t?”

“I won’t get in your way. I think- in the past, I would have, but I’ve changed my outlook on many aspects.”

“Alright. Will you let me finish my milk now?” Martín grins. But it does nothing to change the grim look on Sergio’s face.

“Not yet,” he tells Martín, “I need you to understand. If you do- if you say- anything to make my brother feel less than a human being, you’ll have me to answer to.”

And he gives Martín the _look_ again. 

“Don’t worry.” Martín holds up the coconut. “That won’t happen, so long as I’m alive.”

That’s when Andrés returns, dancing into their home with a popsicle in his mouth. Another one’s in his hand, a tall cube of mango ice on a stick. He slides himself next to Sergio and says, “Here, I got this for you.”

And there’s that smile again, the one that probably melts Sergio’s robotic heart. When Sergio takes the popsicle, Martín says, “What gives? Didn’t get one for me?”

Andrés plucks his own popsicle out and sticks it between Martín’s lips. “We share. I know you like how I taste.”

Sergio crunches his popsicle in half. 

“Well, someone’s uptight,” Martín sighs. “Maybe try some of this milk, Sergio!”

But Sergio just shakes his head. Andrés kisses his brother on the cheek, and because Martín thinks why the hell not, he kisses Sergio on the other cheek.

* * *

And then, Raquel Murillo arrives.

This is the point Martín knows he didn’t imagine everything. If this was his dying dream, he would not invite Inspector Murillo. It’s a strange thing to recall, and the more he dwells on it, the less of it makes sense. It starts with the bar.

Andrés is chatting away about the sunset (again) when Sergio asks the bartender for a charger. Then for whatever reason, he gets Andrés and Martín to ask for chargers too. And he goes one step farther to bribe the bartender into pretending not to understand whatever the next customer is going to say.

“It’s for a surprise,” is Sergio’s only reason.

“What surprise?” Martín says, but Andrés just shrugs.

And then-

“Sergio, look!” Andrés whispers, nudging the other men to look behind.

“The fuck, how she’d find us?” Martín says, before adding an impassioned, “motherfucker” beneath his breath.

But when they urge Sergio to leave, he doesn’t. He waits until Raquel gives up on the bartender to say- loud and clear and absolutely alerting the inspectora to their location- “Do you need a charger?”

And Martín isn’t sure if he should feel offended when Raquel fails to notice Palermo and Berlin. Because then she’s walking right up to the professor, some frenzied look in her eyes, and Martín’s sure she’s going to pull a gun on them. But Sergio leaves his seat before Andrés can pull him back.

Then Andrés topples into the sand, literally, when Sergio takes Raquel into his arms and for lack of better word, lets her devour his mouth. Martín’s choking on his drink next, quite sure this is the most fucked up surprise Sergio’s ever prepared.

Later, Sergio reintroduces her to his companions via their real names (because why not!?). He says Andrés is his brother, and a flare of recognition goes up in Raquel’s eyes, like she’s connecting the parts of a story she’s been figuring out. But he says Martín is a friend, which is a first- Martín had thought Sergio didn’t consider anyone friends, except maybe Andrés.

“Are you two a couple?” Raquel asks, looking from Martín to Andrés, as blunt as she was in the mint.

“How did you know?” Sergio says, looking at her like she’s the Earth and sun all in one (Martín would never look at Andrés like that, or so he hopes).

“It was obvious,” is all she says.

“I have so much to tell you.”

“I know.”

And Martín exchanges a look with Andrés, so baffled that he doesn’t know where to start.

* * *

Raquel becomes a regular fixture in the house soon enough. Which is both a good and bad thing. The good thing is that Martín can now fuck Andrés to his heart’s content, without the risk of Sergio lecturing them to stay apart. They’re just careful enough to time their fuck sessions to match Sergio and Raquel’s. The idea of Sergio fucking anyone is a bit much for Andrés to handle and Martín doesn’t blame him. He still expects this to be some fever dream. But it isn’t.

Raquel Murillo is part of their little family now and she’s fucking Sergio, which Martín guesses, means she ranks higher than everyone else in the house.

The downside is that Raquel’s yet to shed that judgmental gaze. She always has some retort for Martín’s jokes, his curses, his love of coconut milk. Like Tokyo’s spite mixed with Nairobi’s ethic. But it’s not all bad.

Raquel keeps Sergio distracted and Martín’s not sure if he’s ever seen the professor look so happy. She’s funny when she wants to be. She has ideas about avoiding interpol that are actually just as good as Sergio’s, and she’s a fun debate partner (Martín’s yet to win a single argument). And to be honest, Raquel is good to Andrés, far kinder than she should be given their history- but Martín’s learned by now that Andrés has that effect on people, provided he’s not being a little cock shit, and he’s rarely a cock shit around Sergio.

Martín sees them having tea together sometimes, chuckling over some little things he can’t hear (either embarrassing tales about Sergio or more likely, Palermo). Raquel’s not much of a cook but she helps the brothers in the kitchen. And she even makes her way into the pages of Andrés’ sketchbook, which is a feat in itself.

It doesn’t stop her from asking if Martín is a “freeloader” though, to which he says, “Hey! Who led the fucking heist? Me!”

Then just when they’re finally used to Raquel’s presence, she decides to import her family, an aging old woman and a kid under ten. It’s certainly proof that she’s in this for the long haul. It’s also proof that nothing will be the same.

“So bringing your whole family over?” Martín teases, “how is that not freeloading?”

“There’s milk on your nose, Palermo.”

* * *

For once, Sergio’s living the life he’s dressed for. Maybe it’s the plain button-ups. Maybe it’s the ruffled hair, the beard, the glasses. Whatever it is, he certainly looks like a father, completely belonging when he and Raquel walk Paula by the beach. Speaking of Paula, the girl- who Martín had expected to be a snot-nosed brat- isn’t so bad to have around.

She especially likes to mimic whatever Martín does. Putting hands on her hips, a sway in her walk, throwing her head back when she laughs, even sipping milk directly from the coconut. Yeah, it’s not so bad having someone treat his words like some gospel fact. Her frequent cries of, “You’re so smart!?” don’t hurt either.

Sergio’s reassured Raquel many times that Martín is actually an engineer with a doctorate and not a murderer he found on the streets of Buenos Aires. And just when she starts relaxing over the thought of Paula picking up bad habits, the girl stubs her toe on a rock and yells, “la concha de tu madre!”

Martín hears an earful that night.

When she’s not with Martín, Paula is with Andrés, folding paper cranes with him or drawing shapes in the sand. From what Martín understood, Andrés hadn’t exactly been happy with the arrangement. Likely because he’s no longer the center of Sergio’s world. In some ways, Martín understands. What Sergio has now- at least from the outside- is what most people would call the dream life. A beautiful girlfriend, a cute daughter, a doting mother-in-law, picture perfect while they watch the sunset.

But it had once been Sergio holding Andrés’ hand as they walked, both imperfect from head to toe. 

“He’s not going to replace you,” Martín tells Andrés one night. “This isn’t Cinderella.”

“Go to sleep, Martín.”

But Martín just kisses him on the brow and says, “So what if you’re not his fucking world anymore. You’re _my_ world, you know that?”

And then Andrés grins. “You’re mine too.”

And as far as Martín’s concerned, they’re living a perfect life too. When Sergio and Raquel are fucking away in bed, Martín and Andrés laugh with Paula in the sea, splashing each other with water until Martín pulls them both down. 

“I like Sergio,” Paula once tells Andrés over dinner, a seafood picnic between the three of them while her _parents_ have a candlelit supper elsewhere, “but he’s not my dad.”

“Your loss,” Andrés replies, peeling another shrimp for her plate. “Sergio’s the best father in the world.”

“I thought he was your brother.”

He scoops out bits of crab, sticking them in her mouth. “He is. But he’s very good at being a dad. You’re never going to find anyone better. He’ll give you the best birthday presents and he’s always going to be there for you.”

Paula swallows. She picks up a shrimp. “Like he was with you?”

Andrés smiles. “Yeah.”

“Don’t listen to him, Paula,” Martín laughs, “Sergio’s not that great.”

When Raquel returns, she’s surprised to find Paula tracing her lipstick around Andrés’ lips, a wig of curls on his head and a silk dress hanging off his frame. Martín doesn’t even look up from his drink.

“Oh, did Sergio tell you?” he says, “Andrés has a crossdressing fetish.”

“He’s pretty, mamá!” Paula adds, not understanding a word of what Martín said.

“I learn new things from you two every day,” Raquel remarks.

“You know you love us.” And Martín winks. But Raquel’s retort is cut short by Sergio kissing her neck. And that’s when Martín knows it’s time to cover Paula’s eyes.

Mariví isn’t bad to have around either. Her memory isn’t what it once was, so Raquel keeps her at home when she can, which is all the time. But that doesn’t sit right with Martín so he makes it a habit to take her out for walks when Andrés is still asleep. Mariví has the habit of telling Martín the same things over and over again. But she always sets her eyes on something different when he takes her shopping in town, a trinket, a slice of fruit, even a drink in glass. He’s not sure if Raquel allows her mother to have cocktails, but Martín’s allowing it.

It’s nice to be with her, really. Martín’s never known what it’s like to have a mother laugh gently at his jokes, kiss his face, speak to him like she loves him. It’s a warm feeling, one that makes him grow a fucking lump in his throat. And he wonders for the first time if this is how Andrés feels around Sergio.

“What’s your relationship with Salva again?” Mariví often asks.

 _“Sergio,”_ Martín would always say. And sometimes, “I’m his friend.”

“I thought you were his brother?”

And Martín chuckles. Why not, eh? So he replies once, “Yeah, you could say that too. I’m his brother.”

* * *

It’s months after Raquel and her family join them in Palawan that Martín, or rather Andrés, decides it’s time to go. Maybe it’s a thought that they’ve both had for a while, but the temptation of sand and sun on salt was too much to resist. It’s the closest thing to heaven on Earth, a bubble of a world with no worries and everything within reach, a dose of laughter always in their home. Eternally warm. 

And only a crazy son of a bitch would leave it behind. Which is probably why they do.

Martín is dozing on a hammock, Andrés lying against his chest, when- an eye slipping open to stare at a sky brushed pink- the younger man says, “Do you think the waves sound different somewhere else?”

“I was enjoying my nap. Thanks for waking me up.”

Andrés chuckles. Then he turns his head towards shore, where Paula’s happily picking seashells with Sergio and her mother, their pants rolled up to the knees. Against the horizon, they fade into laughing silhouettes.

“Did your mother love you, Martín?”

And Martín snorts. “No.”

That’s probably an understatement. But those old memories have no place here. He thinks, if he leaves them behind long enough, they’ll wash away with the sea. The funny thing is the fact that Andrés has never asked about his past before. Martín’s never asked about Andrés’ either, beyond what he already knows. Like some unspoken agreement between them that the present is all they’ll ever need, that they don’t need to know every fucking detail to be in love.

“Neither did mine,” Andrés tells him, resting a chin on Martín’s collar. “But I was lucky. I had Sergio in the end. Did you have anyone?”

Those thankless hook-ups don’t count, Martín supposes. He tilts his head, jaw rubbing Andrés’ cheek, quite sure the hammock will flip if their weight shifts more.

“Son of a bitch,” Martín says, a light chuckle in his throat, “I think- I had Sergio too.”

And when their gaze shifts to Sergio again, he and Raquel are lifting Paula into the air.

“I don’t think Sergio needs us anymore.” Andrés smiles, a touch sad. “I’ve clung to him all my life. Is it time to let him go?”

Martín knows what he’s getting at now. He feels the same. He’s felt it in his bones for a while, maybe since they first got here. He’ll miss the beach on Palawan, he knows, he’ll miss Sergio’s shitty face and Raquel’s taunts, Paula’s laughs and Mariví’s kisses. But Paula needs to play with other children, Mariví needs her daughter, and Sergio has Raquel. 

“I think so,” Martín answers.

And it’s time for Sergio to let Andrés go as well.

* * *

Paula had thrown a tantrum at first, but Raquel told her they would visit and she’d been more eager to hug them goodbye afterwards. Mariví said she’d miss them, but Martín doesn’t know if she’ll remember, and a part of him hopes she’ll ask where Martín went at dawn. Sergio hadn’t wanted them to go, Martín knows, or he wouldn’t have spent an entire afternoon lecturing Andrés on the dangers of leaving. But in the end, Sergio gave in-- Andrés was in his prime, probably the most radiant he’ll ever be and if he wanted to see the rest of the world, he would. And Martín, Sergio knew Martín had twenty, maybe thirty more years before he had to settle down. 

And those decades belong to them. On the day they leave, Sergio pulls Martín into a weepy hug first, a real shocker even after all this. Then he and Andrés embrace for so long that Martín’s halfway certain Andrés will have second thoughts. But Sergio just thumbs away those tears and kisses his brother on the cheek. They can’t settle in any major cities, but Sergio never said they couldn’t _pass_ by those places, no?

And then-

It’s only Andrés and Martín, two against the world.

There are no guidelines next, no goal, no laws. Maybe Andrés would call it a supernova, a firework of stardust made from their very matter. Martín thinks what they have is more like a stick of dynamite some cartoon character leaves by a train track. A loud, bright colorful boom. 

The sun is warmer, the sky bluer, the earth rougher. Palawan was a charger, and now they’re just electrons bouncing through the air, a kinetic frenzy. It’s the laughter, the cursing, the drinking, the thunderstorm sex, and the frantic need to push everything to its limit. Because there are no limits now. 

“I was born for the rough and tumble,” Andrés tells him once, a shot of tequila zipping down his throat. Then he dips and licks a line of salt from Martín’s stomach down to well- a throbbing endowment.

“A bitchy peacock like you?” Martín laughs, “I don’t fucking think so. Now me, that’s a different story.”

He remembers trying on that stupid corset because- why not. And crying out while Andrés laces it tighter and tighter, Martín’s nails digging into the hotel bed. But it feels different when Martín is stringing the corset to Andrés’ waist, that devilish face gazing up at him with a parted grin. They try all sorts of things without Sergio around. Some of them feel fucking great. Some of them just feel fucked, but it’s all part of the explosion in the end.

But it’s not all fire. There are pieces of light too, the stardust Andrés loves so much. 

Martín sips wine from a glass, the rim tasting of Andrés’ lips. There’s a hot spring where they sit in silence, towels above their heads. Sometimes Andrés holds the polaroid while Martín poses by a garden of grapes, or a river of boats. Mostly, it’s Martín snapping photos of Andrés while he sleeps. The taste of lychee on his mouth, sucking the fruit in and spitting out the seed, Andrés’ fingers peeling skins away. The road beneath their feet never stays the same for long, but Martín doesn’t mind, so long as he wakes up with Andrés on his arm. 

Andrés twists the old red scarf around Martín’s neck come summer, in honor of “qixi” being so near. A thousand red strings between them, the private bridge of birds that brought them here, or so Andrés says. 

Martín also remembers the ruins of Angkor Wat, no one batting an eye at two more tourists in the mix. Andrés had dragged him through it all, the eighth world wonder a humbling monument of the years gone by. Eternity could come and go, and Martín thinks the city of temples would still stand, even when he and everyone else are gone. Like he’s part of something bigger, but he just ends up saying “Wow” to Andrés.

Sometimes he’s rowing a boat while Andrés sits behind him, lazy fucking arms behind his head. Sometimes it’s Andrés on a motorcycle, steering terribly while Martín clings onto him for dear life. There isn’t much chance for Andrés to wear his favorite suits on their travels, but he tries sometimes and just gets his ties all muddy. And when he asks for pity, Martín laughs in his face.

But it’s not all easy either.

Because Sergio was right. Once the thrill of _having_ Andrés wears off, it’s harder to be _with_ him. They can’t talk about art and sex all the time, or their harebrained idea to rob the Bank of Spain. Even Martín’s rambles about science can’t be the subject all day long. And Andrés- even as a fugitive- still loves having eyeballs on himself. He has to be the most eloquent, the prettiest, the best piece of shit in the room, wherever that room may be. 

“Don’t flirt with strangers,” Martín eventually tells him, “I hate it.”

“But I like it when you’re jealous.” Andrés flashes a toothy grin.

“I don’t. I’m serious, Andrés. It makes me feel like shit on your shoe.”

Andrés is no less cocky after that, but the flirting stops, the need to make everyone look at him when he already has Martín’s eyes. Martín learns though. Andrés needs to be told these things, he can’t figure it out on his own.

Martín thinks of it like myopia. Emotion, intuition, compassion, maybe these things come easier for everyone else. But it’s harder for Andrés, always has been. If the eye chart is a meter away, Martín can see it just fine, can read the emotions as easily as a blink. But Andrés has to walk right up to it and squint until he can make the shapes out. Even then, he might get the answers wrong. So Martín reads it out for him instead of scolding him for something he just can’t do.

It’s not always easy, but Martín’s willing to try. 

It’s hard for himself too, to spell it all out. Martín’s spent his life laughing off the pain, turning any hurt into a joke to roll off his tongue. Sometimes Andrés doesn’t laugh, like he sees straight through Martín and doesn’t know how to demand the truth. Andrés is the opposite, so desensitized to pain that he won’t even consider saying anything until Martín sees his feet raw and blistered red. 

But Andrés learns, in bits and bits of bits. And Martín does too, a little more each day. They’re not perfect together, far from it, but when the fire and dust fade, they have each other. And as far as Martín knows, that’s a fraction of perfection he wouldn’t trade for anything else.

Now Martín holds a glass of cold scotch in hand, the hotel lounge quiet save the talk of businessmen and couples gathering for a final nightcap. It’s almost midnight in Taipei, and the pianist in the bar is about to play his last song. But Andrés is leaning by the piano, wrapped in Martín’s leather jacket. He whispers something into the musician’s ear, a sly glance Martín’s way. There’s some back and forth between them, but eventually the pianist gets his point.

“This is a surprise for my beloved,” Andrés says into the microphone, left behind by the singer that’d since clocked out.

He says it in Spanish, so it can only be for Martín. Then Martín rolls his eyes when the piano starts again, Andrés swaying with its beat. But he can’t stop the curve of a smile, the spike of adoration in his pulse, when Andrés swishes too close.

 _“Ti Amo,”_ he sings, _“in sogno, ti amo-”_

And he’s in front of Martín, looking at him like no one else exists. He’s perfect, Martín thinks, fuck it, maybe this is perfect after all. And he pulls Andrés down for a kiss.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

“What the fuck does Sergio take me for? No fucking way! We tell your brother to fuck right off!”

“Martín, wait-”

“Absolutely not!”

“But-”

“They put me through enough shit in the mint!”

Martín kicks a rock in the street, the crowds of Bangkok too busy to notice his tantrum. Fucking Tokyo. Fucking Rio. Is it so hard to heed the professor’s warnings? Why is it always them? Oh right, because of chronic bullshit syndrome. Martín laughs, dry. Two fucking years and now Sergio wants them to all dive back in the game for what? 

“I’m not going to fucking Palawan,” Martín growls, “too bad for Tokyo, but her boy toy brought this on himself.”

Andrés grabs his arm. “But Sergio doesn’t have a plan this time. He needs us-”

“Yeah, so?” Martín shoves Andrés off. “Since when did you care about _Rio?_ And you think Tokyo would go if it was you or me that got caught? Keep dreaming.”

And Andrés fucking shrugs. “I want to care.” 

He reaches for Martín again. “Maybe Tokyo wouldn’t come for us. But Nairobi would.”

Martín’s about to shove him again, but his hand lingers on Andrés’ palm. 

“And Helsinki, Denver,” Andrés goes on, “Moscow, Oslo, they all would.”

Martín groans. “I don’t know who’s talking anymore, you or Sergio.” And he knows he’ll regret what he says next.

“Fine! I’ll do it. But we get packing now. And you’re never allowed to ask me for anything again. Fuck!”

Andrés grins. “Te amo.”

“Fuck you.”

A week later, they’re back in Palawan, on the familiar beach, as warm and blue as it was in Martín’s memory. And Andrés can’t wait to fucking see Sergio because as soon as the professor steps out of his home, Andrés lets go of Martín’s hand and bolts towards him, waving Martín’s blueprints of the Bank of Spain in his hand.

“Profesor!” Andrés cries, grinning from ear to ear.

And then he crashes into sand when someone else tackles him around the waist, a loud “Berlin!” rumbling from the newcomer’s throat. But that laugh, Martín would know anywhere. Denver.

 _“La concha de tu madre,”_ Andrés snaps, coughing out a mouthful of sand.

Denver laughs again and hugs him tighter, rambling about how long it’s been and how Berlin has to meet Cicinnati and all sorts of answers to questions Andrés never asked. And Martín is doubling over laughing when he sees Tokyo step out behind Sergio.

“Palermo,” she says. Well, it’s the closest thing he’ll get to a ‘thank you.’

“Yeah, nice to see you too.”

And because he’s here, Martín runs up to Sergio and embraces him before Andrés.

“Palermo, thank you,” Sergio tells him. Now that’s more like it.

Martín pulls apart and pokes the professor in the chest. “We went through a lot of trouble coming back. You can blame that piece of shit there.”

And he points at Berlin, still lying in the sand with Denver. 

“So are there any more surprises?” Martín asks.

Sergio adjusts his glasses, mouth twitching into a smile. “More than you can count. When everyone else gets here, we’ll explain everything.”

And Martín grins. “Great.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE: This AU now comes with a follow-up story of unrelated oneshots: see [Aching Skies, Summer Nights](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26223121/chapters/63822673)
> 
> Thanks for reading to the end! Comments&kudos are always appreciated, and a huge thank you again for taking a chance on this fic!
> 
> Some final thoughts: This story was supposed to be a two-shot at most LMAO. Then it kept stretching. I set out to write a short kinky AU crackpiece, but it turned into something else (or did it lol?). 
> 
> Things that didn't make the final cut:  
> -I actually considered making Andrés terminally ill in this version too, but decided that'd be too sad.  
> -In the epilogue, there was supposed to be a part where Andrés gets Martín to reenact the "I'm king of the world" scene from Titanic on the boat and Martín would go, Yeah I saw that movie, no I'm not going to drown for you.  
> -Andrés was going to stick a paintbrush up his ass at some point; I have no idea why this popped into my head but it was so stupid it was eliminated (for now...)  
> -Karaoke bar scene didn't make it in
> 
> ANYWAY, I think I'll revisit this universe in the future, maybe with a story of unrelated one-shots that fit the AU. A huge thank-you again to everyone who tolerated this story!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and Comments & Kudos are always appreciated!
> 
> More tags to come~


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